'  ' 


, 


- 


Madame  de  Macumer 

Photogravure  —  From  an  Original  Drawing 


Illustrated  Sterling  edition 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY 
HONORE  de  BALZAC 


With  Introductions  by 

GEORGE  SAINTSBURY 


BOSTON 
DANA  ESTES  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHTED 


JOHN  D.   AVIL 


A II  Rights  Reserved 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION-  -          -      ix 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE : 

(UneFilled'£ve.) 

CHAP. 

I.  THE  TWO  MARIES   -                               ...  2 

II.   SISTERLY  CONFIDENCES     -  14 

III.  THE  STORY  OF  A   HAPPY  WOMAN  21 

IV.  A  MAN  OF  NOTE       -                                               -               -  3! 

v.  FLORINS      -  48 

VI.   LOVE  VERSUS  SOCIETY        -  64 

VII.  SUICIDE          -  83 

VIII.   A  LOVER  SAVED  AND  LOST  -                                   IOO 

IX.    A   HUSBAND'S  TRIUMPH       -  -                     IIJ 

LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES: 

(Mfmoires  de  deux  jeunes  Mantes.) 

FIRST  PART  -     •  -      132 

SECOND   PART          -  ...      311 

(Translator,  R.  S  SCOTT.) 
VOL.  5 — I 


iv  CONTENTS 

PART  II 

PAOR 

INTRODUCTION     -  .  .    ix 

A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY: 

(La  Femme  de  Trente  Ans.) 

I.   EARLY  MISTAKES  ...          I 

H.   A  HIDDEN  GRIEF        -  -  -  -  72 

III.   AT  THIRTY  YEARS     -  -  -  93 

iv.  THE  FINGER  OF  GOD          -          -          -          -    116 

V.  TWO  MEETINGS  ....     I3O 

VI.  THE  OLD  AGE  OF  A  GUILTY  MOTHER         -  -      l8l 

THE  DESERTED  WOMAN     -  -  .  -197 

(La  Femme  Abandonnte.) 


LA  GRENADIERS  .  .    243 

(La  Grenadier e.) 


THE  MESSAGE     -  -  -  -    269 

(Le  Message. ) 


GOBSECK     -  -  -          -          -    285 

(Gobseck.) 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  -  -          .349 

(Pierre  Grassou.) 
(Translator,  ELLEN  MARRIAGK.) 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

AND 
LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


INTRODUCTION 

OPINIONS  of  the  larger  division  of  this  book  will  vary  in 
pretty  direct  ratio  with  the  general  taste  of  the  reader  for 
Balzac  in  his  more  sentimental  mood,  and  for  his  delineations 
of  virtuous  or  "honest"  women.  As  is  the  case  with  the 
number  of  the  Comedie  which  immediately  succeeds  it  in 
Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee,  I  cannot  say  of  it  that  it  appeals  to 
me  personally  with  any  strong  attraction.  It  is,  however, 
much  later  and  much  more  accomplished  work  than  La 
Femme  de  Trente  Ans  and  its  companions.  It  is  possible  also 
that  opinion  may  be  conditioned  by  likes  or  dislikes  for  novels 
written  in  the  form  of  letters,  but  this  cannot  count  for  very 
much.  Some  of  the  best  novels  in  the  world,  and  some  of  the 
worst,  have  taken  this  form,  so  that  the  form  itself  can  have 
had  nothing  necessarily  to  do  with  their  goodness  and  badness 
by  itself. 

Something  of  the  odd  perversity  which  seems  to  make  it 
so  difficult  for  a  French  author  to  imagine  a  woman,  not 
necessarily  a  model  of  perfection,  who  combines  love  for  her 
husband  of  the  passionate  kind  with  love  for  her  children 
of  the  animal  sort,  common-sense  and  good  housewifery  with 
freedom  from  the  characteristics  of  the  mere  menagere,  in- 
terest in  affairs  and  books  and  things  in  general  without,  in 
the  French  sense,  "dissipation"  or  neglect  of  home, — appears 
in  the  division  of  the  parts  of  Louise  de  Chaulieu  and  Renee 
de  Maucombe.  I  cannot  think  that  Balzac  has  improved  his 
book,  though  he  has  made  it  much  easier  to  write,  by  this 
separation.  We  should  take  more  interest  in  Renee's 

(ix) 


x  INTRODUCTION 

nursery — it  is  fair  to  Balzac  to  say  that  he  was  one  of  the 
earliest,  despite  his  lukewarm  affection  for  things  English,  to 
introduce  this  important  apartment  into  a  French  novel — if 
she  had  married  her  husband  less  as  a  matter  of  business, 
and  had  regarded  him  with  a  somewhat  more  romantic  affec- 
tion; and  though  it  is  perhaps  not  fair  to  look  forward  to 
the  Depute  d'Arcis  (which,  after  all,  is  not  in  this  part  prob- 
ably Balzac's  work),  we  should  not  in  that  case  have  been 
so  little  surprised  as  we  are  to  find  the  staid  matron  very 
nearly  flinging  herself  at  the  head  of  a  young  sculptor,  and 
"making  it  up"  to  him  (one  of  the  nastiest  situations  in  fic- 
'tion)  with  her  own  daughter.  So,  too,  if  the  addition  of  a 
little  more  romance  to  Eenee  had  resulted  in  the  subtraction 
of  a  corresponding  quantity  from  Louise,  there  might  not 
have  been  much  harm  done.  This  very  inflammable  lady  of 
high  degree  irresistibly  reminds  one  (except  in  beauty)  of 
the  terrible  spinster  in  Mr.  Punch's  gallery  who  "had  never 
seen  the  man  whom  she  could  not  love,  and  hoped  to  Heaven 
she  never  might."  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  Mile,  de 
Chaulieu  requested  (in  defiance  of  possibility)  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Madame  de  Stael.  She  is  herself  a  later  and  slightly 
modernized  variety  of  the  Corinne  ideal — a  sort  of  French 
equivalent  in  fiction  of  the  actual  English  Lady  Caroline 
Lamb,  a  person  with  no  repose  in  her  affections,  and  con- 
ceiving herself  in  conscience  bound  to  make  both  herself  and 
her  lovers  or  husbands  miserable.  It  is  true  that  in  order  to 
the  successful  accomplishment  of  this  cheerful  life-pro- 
gramme, Balzac  has  provided  her  with  two  singularly  com- 
plaisant and  adequate  helpmates  in  the  shape  of  the  Spaniard- 
Sardinian  Felipe  de  Macumer  and  the  French-Englishman 
and  lunatic  Marie  Gaston.  Nor  do  I  know  that  she  is  more 
than  they  themselves  desire,  being,  as  they  are,  walking  gen- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

tlemen  of  a  most  triste  description,  deplorable  to  consider  as 
coming  from  the  hand  that  created  not  merely  Goriot  and 
Grandet,  but  even  Rastignac,  More  Brazier,  and  Lucien  de 
Rubempre.  If  this  censure  seems  too  hard,  I  can  only  say 
that  of  all  things  that  deserve  the  name  of  failure,  "sensi- 
bility" that  does  not  reach  the  actual  boiling-point  of  pas- 
sion seems  to  me  to  fail  most  disagreeably. 

There  are,  however,  even  for  those  who  are  thus  minded, 
considerable  condolences  and  consolations  in  Une  Fille  d'Eve. 
It  is  perhaps  unfortunate,  and  may  not  improbably  be  the 
cause  of  that  abiding  notion  of  Balzac  as  preferring  moral 
ugliness  to  moral  beauty,  which  has  been  so  often  referred 
to,  that  he  has  rather  a  habit  of  setting  his  studies  in  rose- 
pink  side  by  side  with  his  far  more  vigorous  exercitations 
in  black  and  crimson.  Une  Fille  d'five  is  one  of  the  best  of 
these  latter  in  its  own  way.  It  is  no  doubt  conditioned  by 
Balzac's  quaint  hatred  of  that  newspaper  press  from  which  he 
never  could  quite  succeed  in  disengaging  himself;  and  we 
should  have  been  more  entirely  rejoiced  at  the  escape  of 
Count  Felix  de  Vandenesse  from  the  decoration  so  often  al- 
luded to  by  our  Elizabethan  poets  and  dramatists  if  he  had 
not  been  the  very  questionable  hero  of  Le  Lys  dans  la  Vallee. 
But  the  whole  intrigue  is  managed  with  remarkable  ease  and 
skill ;  the  "double  arrangement,"  so  to  speak,  by  which  Raoul 
Nathan  proves  for  a  time  at  least  equally  attractive  to  such 
very  different  persons  as  Florine  and  Madame  de  Vandenesse, 
the  perfidious  manoeuvres  of  the  respectable  ladies  who  have 
formerly  enjoyed  the  doubtful  honor  of  Count  Felix's  atten- 
tions— all  are  good.  It  can  hardly  be  said,  considering  the 
nature  of  the  case,  that  the  Count's  method  of  saving  his 
honor,  though  not  quite  the  most  scrupulous  in  the  world,  is 
contrary  to  "the  game,"  and  the  whole  moves  well. 


ill  INTRODUCTION 

Perhaps  the  character  of  Nathan  himself  cannot  be  said 
to  be  quite  fully  worked  out.  Balzac  seems  to  have  postulated, 
as  almost  necessary  to  the  journalist  nature,  a  sort  of  levity 
half  artistic,  half  immoral,  which  is  incapable  of  constancy 
or  uprightness.  Blondet,  and  perhaps  Claude  Vignon,  are 
about  the  only  members  of  the  accursed  vocation  whom  he 
allows  in  some  measure  to  escape  the  curse.  But  he  has  not 
elaborated  and  instanced  its  working  quite  so  fully  in  the 
case  of  Nathan  as  in  the  cases  of  Lousteau  and  Lucien  de 
Eubempre.  I  do  not  know  whether  any  special  original  has 
been  assigned  to  Nathan,  who,  it  will  be  observed,  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  mere  journalist,  being  a  successful 
dramatist  and  romancer. 

Memoires  de  Deux  Jeunes  Mariees  first  appeared  in  the 
Presse  during  the  winter  of  1841-42,  and  was  published  as  a 
book  by  Souverain  in  the  latter  year.  The  Comedie  in  its 
complete  form  was  already  under  weigh;  and  the  Memoires 
being  suitable  for  its  earliest  division,  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie 
Privee  were  entered  at  once  on  the  books,  the  same  year,  1842, 
seeing  the  entrance. 

Une  Fille  d'Eve  was  a  little  earlier.  After  appearing  (with 
nine  chapter  divisions)  in  the  Siecle  on  the  last  day  of  De- 
cember 1838  and  during  the  first  fortnight  of  January  1839, 
it  was  in  the  latter  year  published  as  a  book  by  Souverain  with 
Massimilla  Doni,  and  three  years  later  was  comprised  in  the 
first  volume  of  the  Comedie.  G-.  S. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

To  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Bolognini, 
nee  Vimercati. 

If  you  remember,  dear  lady,  the  pleasure  your  conversation 

% 
gave  to  a  certain  traveler,  making  Paris  live  for  him  in  Milan, 

you  will  not  be  surprised  that  he  should  lay  one  of  his  works  at 
your  feet,  as  a  token  of  gratitude  for  so  many  delightful  even- 
ings spent  in  your  society,  nor  that  he  should  seek  for  it  the 
shelter  of  a  name  which,  in  old  times,  was  given  to  not  a  few 
of  the  tales  by  one  of  your  early  writers,  beloved  of  the  Milanese. 
You  have  an  Eugenie,  with  more  than  the  promise  of  beauty, 
whose  speaking  smile  proclaims  her  to  have  inherited  from  you 
the  most  precious  gifts  a  woman  can  possess,  and  whose  child- 
hood, it  is  certain,  will  be  rich  in  all  those  joys  which  a  harsh 
mother  refused  to  the  Eugenie  of  these  pages.  If  Frenchmen 
are  accused  of  being  frivolous  and  inconstant,  I,  you  see,  am 
Italian  in  my  faithfulness  and  attachment.  How  often,  as  I 
wrote  the  name  of  Eugenie,  have  my  thoughts  carried  me  back 
to  the  cool  stuccoed  drawing-room  and  little  garden  of  the  Vicolo 
del  Capucclni,  which  used  to  resound  to  the  dear  child's  merry 
laughter,  to  our  quarrels,  and  our  stories.  You  have  left  the 
Cor  so  for  the  Tre  Monasteri,  where  I  know  nothing  of  your  man- 
ner of  life,  and  I  am  forced  to  picture  you,  no  longer  amongst 
the  pretty  things,  which  doubtless  still  surround  you,  but  like 
one  of  the  beautiful  heads  of  Carlo  Dolci,  Raphael,  Titian,  or 
Allori,  which,  in  their  remoteness,  seem  to  us  like  abstractions. 

If  this  book  succeed  in  making  its  way  across  the  Alps,  it  will 
tell  you  of  the  lively  gratitude  and  respectful  friendship  of 

Your  humble  servant, 
DE  BALZAC. 


2  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  TWO  MARIES 

IT  was  half-past  eleven  in  the  evening,  and  two  -women  were 
seated  by  the  fire  of  a  boudoir  in  one  of  the  finest  houses  of 
the  Rue  Neuve-des-Mathurins.  The  room  was  hung  in  blue 
velvet,  of  the  kind  wi'th  tender  melting  lights,  which  French 
industry  has  only  lately  learned  to  manufacture.  The  doors 
and  windows  had  been  draped  by  a  really  artistic  decorator 
with  rich  cashmere  curtains,  matching  the  walls  in  color. 
From  a  prettily  moulded  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling, 
hung,  by  three  finely  wrought  chains,  a  silver  lamp,  studded 
with  turquoises.  The  plan  of  decoration  had  been  carried 
out  to  the  very  minutest  detail ;  even  the  ceiling  was  covered 
with  blue  silk,  while  long  bands  of  cashmere,  folded  across 
the  silk  at  equal  distances,  made  stars  of  white,  looped  up 
with  pearl  beading.  The  feet  sank  in  the  warm  pile  of  a 
Belgian  carpet,  close  as  a  lawn,  where  blue  nosegays  were 
sprinkled  over  a  ground  the  color  of  unbleached  linen.  The 
warm  tone  of  the  furniture,  which  was  of  solid  rosewood 
and  carved  after  the  best  antique  models,  saved  from  in- 
sipidity the  general  effect  which  a  painter  might  have  called 
wanting  in  "accent."  On  the  chair  backs  small  panels  of 
splendid  broche  silk — white  with  blue  flowers — were  set  in 
broad  leafy  frames,  finely  cut  on  the  wood.  On  either  side 
of  the  window  stood  a  set  of  shelves,  loaded  with  valuable 
knick-knacks,  the  flower  of  mechanical  art,  sprung  into  being 
at  the  touch  of  creative  fancy.  The  mantelpiece  of  African 
marble  bore  a  platinum  timepiece  wifh  arabesques  in  black 
enamel,  flanked  by  extravagant  specimens  of  old  Dresden — 
the  inevitable  shepherd  with  dainty  bouquet  for  ever  tripping 
to  meet  his  bride — embodying  the  Teutonic  conception  of 
ceramic  art.  Above  sparkled  the  beveled  facets  of  a  Venetian 
mirror  in  an  ebony  frame,  crowded  with  figures  in  relief,  relic 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  3 

of  some  royal  residence.  Two  flower-stands  displayed  at 
this  season  the  sickly  triumphs  of  the  hothouse,  pale,  spirit- 
like  blossoms,  the  pearls  of  the  world  of  flowers.  The  room 
might  have  been  for  sale,  it  was  so  desperately  tidy  and 
prim.  It  bore  no  impress  of  will  and  character  such  as  marks 
a  happy  home,  and  even  the  women  did  not  break  the  general 
chilly  impression,  for  they  were  weeping. 

The  proprietor  of  the  house,  Ferdinand  du  Tillet,  was 
one  of  the  richest  bankers  in  Paris,  and  the  very  mention 
of  his  name  will  account  for  the  lavish  style  of  the  house 
decoration,  of  which  the  boudoir  may  be  taken  as  a  sample. 
Du  Tillet,  though  a  man  of  no  family  and  sprung  from 
Heaven  knows  where,  had  taken  for  wife,  in  1831,  the  only 
unmarried  daughter  of  the  Comte  de  Granville,  whose  name 
was  one  of  the  most  illustrious  on  the  French  bench,  and 
who  had  been  made  a  peer  of  the  realm  after  the  Eevolution 
of  July.  This  ambitious  alliance  was  not  got  for  nothing; 
in  the  settlement,  du  Tillet  had  to  sign  a  receipt  for  a  dowry 
of  which  he  never  touched  a  penny.  This  nominal  dowry 
was  the  same  in  amount  as  the  huge  sum  given  to  the  elder 
sister  on  her  marriage  with  Comte  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  and 
which,  in  fact,  was  the  price  paid  by  the  Granvilles  in  their 
turn  for  a  matrimonial  prize.  Thus,  in  the  long  run,  the 
bank  repaired  the  breach  which  aristocracy  had  made  in  the 
finances  of  the  bench.  Could  the  Comte  de  Vandenesse  have 
seen  himself,  three  years  in  advance,  brother-in-law  of  a 
Master  Ferdinand,  self-styled  du  Tillet,  it  is  possible  he 
might  have  declined  the  match;  but  who  could  have  foreseen 
at  the  close  of  1828  the  strange  upheavals  which  1830  was 
to  produce  in  the  political,  financial,  and  moral  condition  of 
France?  Had  Count  Felix  been  told  that  in  the  general 
shuffle  he  would  lose  his  peer's  coronet,  to  find  it  again  on  his 
father-in-law's  brow,  he  would  have  treated  his  informant  as 
a  lunatic. 

Crouching  in  a  listening  attitude  in  one  of  those  low 
chairs  called  a  chauffeuse,  Mme.  du  Tillet  pressed  her  sister's 
hand  to  her  breast  with  motherly  tenderness,  and  from  time 


4  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

to  time  kissed  it.  This  sister  was  known  in  society  as  Mme. 
Felix  de  Vandenesse,  the  Christian  name  being  joined  to  that 
of  the  family,  in  order  to  distinguish  the  Countess  from  her 
sister-in-law,  wife  of  the  former  ambassador,  Charles  de 
Vandenesse,  widow  of  the  late  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  whose 
wealth  she  had  inherited,  and  by  birth  a  de  Fontaine.  The 
Countess  had  thrown  herself  back  upon  a  lounge,  a  hand- 
kerchief in  her  other  hand,  her  eyes  swimming,  her  breath 
choked  with  half-stifled  sobs.  She  had  just  poured  out  her 
confidences  to  Mme.  du  Tillet  in  a  way  which  proved  the 
tenderness  of  their  sisterly  love.  In  an  age  like  ours  it 
would  have  seemed  so  natural  for  sisters,  who  had  married 
into  such  very  different  spheres,  not  to  be  on  intimate  terms, 
that  a  rapid  glance  at  the  story  of  their  childhood  will  be 
necessary  in  order  to  explain  the  origin  of  this  affection 
which  had  survived,  without  jar  or  flaw,  the  alienating  forces 
of  society  and  the  mutual  scorn  of  their  husbands. 

The  early  home  of  Marie-Angelique  and  Marie-Eugenie 
was  a  dismal  house  in  the  Marais.  Here  they  were  brought 
up  by  a  pious  but  narrow-minded  woman,  "imbued  with  high 
principle,"  as  the  classic  phrase  has  it,  who  conceived  herself 
to  have  performed  the  whole  duty  of  a  mother  when  her 
girls  arrived  at  the  door  of  matrimony  without  ever  having 
traveled  beyond  the  domestic  circle  embraced  by  the  maternal 
eye.  Up  to  that  time  they  had  never  even  been  to  a  play. 
A  Paris  church  was  their  nearest  approach  to  a  theatre. 
In  short,  their  upbringing  in  their  mother's  house  was  as 
strict  as  it  could  have  been  in  a  convent.  From  the  time 
that  they  had  ceased  to  be  mere  infants  they  always  slept 
in  a  room  adjoining  that  of  the  Countess,  the  door  of  which 
was  kept  open  at  night.  The  time  not  occupied  by  dressing, 
religious  observances,  and  the  minimum  of  study  requisite 
for  the  children  of  gentlefolk,  was  spent  in  making  poor- 
clothes  and  in  taking  exercise,  modeled  on  the  English  Sun- 
day walk,  where  any  quickening  of  the  solemn  pace  is  checked 
as  being  suggestive  of  cheerfulness.  Their  lessons  were  kept 
within  the  limits  imposed  by  confessors,  chosen  from  among 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  5 

the  least  liberal  and  most  Jansenist  of  ecclesiastics.  Never 
were  girls  handed  over  to  their  husbands  more  pure  and 
virgin :  in  this  point,  doubtless  one  of  great  importance,  their 
mother  seemed  to  have  seen  the  fulfilment  of  her  whole  duty 
to  God  and  man.  Not  a  novel  did  the  poor  things  read 
till  they  were  married.  In  drawing  an  old  maid  was  their 
instructor,  and  their  only  copies  were  figures  whose  anatomy 
would  have  confounded  Cuvier,  and  so  drawn  as  to  have 
made  a  woman  of  the  Farnese  Hercules.  A  worthy  priest 
taught  them  grammar,  French,  history,  geography,  and  the 
little  arithmetic  a  woman  needs  to  know.  As  for  literature, 
they  read  aloud  in  the  evening  from  certain  authorized  books, 
such  as  the  Lettres  edifiantes  and  Noel's  Legons  de  litterature, 
but  only  in  the  presence  of  their  mother's  confessor,  since 
even  here  passages  might  occur,  which,  apart  from  heedful 
commentary,  would  be  liable  to  stir  the  imagination.  Fene- 
lon's  Telemachus  was  held  dangerous.  The  Comtesse  de 
Granville  was  not  without  affection  for  her  daughters,  and 
it  showed  itself  in  wishing  to  make  angels  of  them  in  the 
fashion  of  Marie  Alacoque,  but  the  daughters  would  have 
preferred  a  mother  less  saintly  and  more  human. 

This  education  bore  its  inevitable  fruit.  Eeligion,  im- 
posed as  a  yoke  and  presented  under  its  harshest  aspect, 
wearied  these  innocent  young  hearts  with  a  discipline  adapted 
for  hardened  sinners.  It  repressed  their  feelings,  and,  though 
striking  deep  root,  could  create  no  affection.  The  two 
Maries  had  no  alternative  but  to  sink  into  imbecility  or  to 
long  for  independence.  Independence  meant  marriage,  and 
to  this  they  looked  as  soon  as  they  began  to  see  something  of 
the  world  and  could  exchange  a  few  ideas,  while  yet  remain- 
ing utterly  unconscious  of  their  own  touching  grace  and  rare 
qualities.  Ignorant  of  what  innocence  meant,  without  arms 
against  misfortune,  without  experience  of  happiness,  how 
should  they  be  able  to  judge  of  life?  Their  only  comfort 
in  the  depths  of  this  maternal  jail  was  drawn  from  each 
other.  Their  sweet  whispered  talks  at  night,  the  few  sen- 
tences they  could  exchange  when  their  mother  left  them  foi 


0  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

a  moment,  contained  sometimes  more  thoughts  than  could 
be  put  in  words.  Often  would  a  stolen  glance,  charged  with 
sympathetic  message  and  response,  convey  a  whole  poem 
of  bitter  melancholy.  They  found  a  marvelous  joy  in  simple 
things — the  sight  of  a  cloudless  sky,  the  scent  of  flowers,  a 
turn  in  the  garden  with  interlacing  arms — and  would  exult 
with  innocent  glee  over  the  completion  of  a  piece  of  em- 
broidery. 

Their  mother's  friends,  far  from  providing  intellectual 
stimulus  or  calling  forth  their  sympathies,  only  deepened 
the  surrounding  gloom.  They  were  stiff-backed  old  ladies, 
dry  and  rigid,  whose  conversation  turned  on  their  ailments, 
on  the  shades  of  difference  between  preachers  or  confessors, 
or  on  the  most  trifling  events  in  the  religious  world,  which 
might  be  found  in  the  pages  of  La  Quotidienne  or  L'Ami 
de  la  Religion.  The  men  again  might  have  served  as  ex- 
tinguishers to  the  torch  of  love,  so  cold  and  mournfully 
impassive  were  their  faces.  They  had  all  reached  the  age 
when  a  man  becomes  churlish  and  irritable,  when  his  tastes 
are  blunted  except  at  table,  and  are  directed  only  to  procuring 
the  comforts  of  life.  Religious  egotism  had  dried  up  hearts 
devoted  to  task  work  and  entrenched  behind  routine.  They 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  evening  over  silent  card-parties. 
At  times  the  two  poor  little  girls,  placed  under  the  ban  of 
this  sanhedrim,  who  abetted  the  maternal  severity,  would 
suddenly  feel  that  they  could  bear  no  longer  the  sight  of 
these  wearisome  persons  with  their  sunken  eyes  and  frowning 
faces. 

Against  the  dull  background  of  this  life  stood  out  in  bold 
relief  the  single  figure  of  a  man,  that  of  their  music-master. 
The  confessors  had  ruled  that  music  was  a  Christian  art, 
having  its  source  in  the  Catholic  church  and  developed  by  it, 
and  therefore  the  two  little  girls  were  allowed  to  learn  music. 
A  spectacled  lady,  who  professed  sol-fa  and  the  piano  at  a 
neighboring  convent,  bored  them  for  a  time  with  exercises. 
But,  when  the  elder  of  the  girls  was  ten  years  old,  the  Comte 
de  Granville  pointed  out  the  necessity  of  finding  a  master. 


A  DAUU11TKK  Ob'  KVE  7 

Mme.  de  Granville,  who  could  not  deny  it,  gave  to  her  con- 
cession all  the  merit  of  wifely  submissiveness.  A  pious 
woman  never  loses  an  opportunity  of  taking  credit  for  doing 
her  duty. 

The  master  was  a  Catholic  German,  one  of  those  men 
who  are  born  old  and  will  always  remain  fifty,  even  if  they 
live  to  be  eighty.  His  hollowed,  wrinkled,  swarthy  face  had 
kept  something  childlike  and  simple  in  its  darkest  folds. 
The  blue  of  innocence  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  and  the  gay  smile 
of  spring  dwelt  on  his  lips.  His  gray  old  hair,  which  fell 
in  natural  curls,  like  those  of  Jesus  Christ,  added  to  his 
ecstatic  air  a  vague  solemnity  which  was  highly  misleading, 
for  he  was  a  man  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  the  most  ex- 
emplar}r  gravity.  His  clothes  were  a  necessary  envelope  to 
which  he  paid  no  attention,  for  his  gaze  soared  too  high  in 
the  clouds  to  come  in  contact  with  material  things.  And 
so  this  great  unrecognized  artist  belonged  to  that  generous 
race  of  the  absent-minded,  who  give  their  time  and  their 
hearts  to  others,  just  as  they  drop  their  gloves  on  every  table, 
their  umbrellas  at  every  door.  His  hands  were  of  the  kind 
which  look  dirty  after  washing.  Finally,  his  aged  frame, 
badly  set  up  on  tottering,  knotty  limbs,  gave  ocular  proof 
how  far  a  man's  body  can  become  a  mere  accessory  to  his 
mind.  It  was  one  of  those  strange  freaks  of  nature  which  no 
one  has  ever  properly  described  except  Hoffmann,  a  German, 
who  has  made  himself  the  poet  of  all  which  appears  lifeless 
and  yet  lives.  Such  was  Schmucke,  formerly  choirmaster 
to  the  Margrave  of  Anspach,  a  learned  man  who  underwent 
inspection  from  a  council  of  piety.  They  asked  him  whether 
he  fasted.  The  master  was  tempted  to  reply,  "Look  at  me !" 
but  it  is  ill  work  jesting  with  saints  and  Jansenist  confessors. 

This  apocryphal  old  man  held  so  large  a  place  in  the  life 
of  the  two  Maries — they  became  so  much  attached  to  the 
great  simple-minded  artist  whose  sole  interest  was  in  his 
art — that,  after  they  were  married,  each  bestowed  on  him  an 
annuity  of  three  hundred  francs,  a  sum  which  sufficed  foi 
his  lodging,  his  beer,  his  pipe,  and  his  clothes.  Six  hundred 


francs  a  year  and  his  lessons  were  a  Paradise  for  Schnracke. 
He  had  not  ventured  to  confide  his  poverty  and  his  hopes 
to  any  one  except  these  two  charming  children,  whose  hearts 
had  blossomed  under  the  snow  of  maternal  rigor  and  the 
frost  of  devotion,  and  this  fact  by  itself  sums  up  the  character 
of  Schmucke  and  the  childhood  of  the  two  Maries. 

No  one  could  tell  afterwards  what  abbe,  what  devout  old 
lady,  had  unearthed  this  German,  lost  in  Paris.  No  sooner 
did  mothers  of  a  family  learn  that  the  Comtesse  de  Granville 
had  found  a  music-master  for  her  daughters  than  they  all 
asked  for  his  name  and  address.  Schmucke  had  thirty  houses 
in  the  Marais.  This  tardy  success  displayed  itself  in  slippers 
with  bronze  steel  buckles  and  lined  with  horse-hair  soles, 
and  in  a  more  frequent  change  of  shirt.  His  childlike  gaiety, 
long  repressed  by  an  honorable  and  seemly  poverty,  bubbled 
forth  afresh.  He  let  fall  little  jokes  such  as: — 'Toung 
ladies,  the  cats  supped  off  the  dirt  of  Paris  last  night,"  when 
a  frost  had  dried  the  muddy  streets  overnight,  only  they  were 
spoken  in  a  Germano-Gallic  lingo: — "Younc  ladies,  de  gads 
subbed  off  de  dirt  off  Barees"  Gratified  at  having  brought 
his  adorable  ladies  this  species  of  Vergiss  mein  niclit,  culled 
from  the  flowers  of  his  fancy,  he  put  on  an  air  of  such  in- 
effable roguishness  in.  presenting  it  that  mockery  was  dis- 
armed. It  made  him  so  happy  to  call  a  smile  to  the  lips  of 
his  pupils,  the  sadness  of  whose  life  was  no  mystery  to  him, 
that  he  would  have  made  himself  ridiculous  on  purpose  if 
nature  had  not  saved  him  the  trouble.  And  yet  there  was 
no  commonplace  so  vulgar  that  the  warmth  of  his  heart  could 
not  infuse  it  with  fresh  meaning.  In  the  fine  words  of  the 
late  Saint-Martin,  the  radiance  of  his  smile  might  have 
turned  the  mire  of  the  highway  to  gold.  The  two  Maries, 
following  one  of  the  best  traditions  of  religious  education, 
used  to  escort  their  master  respectfully  to  the  door  of  the 
suite  when  he  left.  There  the  poor  girls  would  say  a  few 
kind  words  to  him,  happy  in  making  him  happy.  It  was  the 
one  chance  they  had  of  exercising  their  woman's  nature. 

Thus,  up  to  the  time  of  their  marriage,  music  became 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  9 

for  the  girls  a  life  within  life,  just  as,  we  are  told,  the  Russian 
peasant  takes  his  dreams  for  realities,  his  waking  life  for 
a  restless  sleep.  In  their  eagerness  to  find  some  bulwark 
against  the  rising  tide  of  pettiness  and  consuming  ascetic 
ideas,  they  threw  themselves  desperately  into  the  difficulties 
of  the  musical  art.  Melody,  harmony,  and  composition,  those 
three  daughters  of  the  skies,  rewarded  their  labors,  making 
a  rampart  for  them  with  their  aerial  dances,  while  the  old 
Catholic  faun,  intoxicated  by  music,  led  the  chorus.  Mozart, 
Beethoven,  Haydn,  Paesiello,  Cimarosa,  Hummel,  along  with 
musicians  of  lesser  rank,  developed  in  them  sensations  which 
never  passed  beyond  the  modest  limit  of  their  veiled  bosoms, 
but  which  went  to  the  heart  of  that  new  world  of  fancy 
whither  they  eagerly  betook  themselves.  When  the  execution 
of  some  piece  had  been  brought  to  perfection,  they  would 
clasp  hands  and  embrace  in  the  wildest  ecstasy.  The  old 
master  called  them  his  Saint  Cecilias. 

The  two  Maries  did  not  go  to  balls  till  they  were  sixteen, 
and  then  only  four  times  a  year,  to  a  few  selected  houses. 
They  only  left  their  mother's  side  when  well  fortified  with 
rules  of  conduct,  so  strict  that  they  could  reply  nothing  but 
yes  and  no  to  their  partners.  The  eye  of  the  Countess  never 
quitted  her  daughters  and  seemed  to  read  the  words  upon 
their  lips.  The  ball-dresses  of  the  poor  little  things  were 
models  of  decorum — high-necked  muslin  frocks,  with  an  ex- 
traordinary number  of  fluffy  frills  and  long  sleeves.  This 
ungraceful  costume,  which  concealed  instead  of  setting  off 
their  beauty,  reminded-  one  of  an  Egyptian  mummy,  in  spite 
of  two  sweetly  pathetic  faces  which  peeped  out  from  the  mass 
of  cotton.  With  all  their  innocence,  they  were  furious  to 
find  themselves  the  objects  of  a  kindly  pity.  Where  is  the 
woman,  however  artless,  who  would  not  inspire  envy  rather 
than  compassion?  The  white  matter  of  their  brains  was 
unsoiled  by  a  single  perilous,  morbid,  or  even  equivocal 
thought ;  their  hearts  were  pure,  their  hands  were  frightfully 
red ;  they  were  bursting  with  health.  Eve  did  not  leave  the 
hands  of  her  Creator  more  guileless  than  were  these  two' girls 


10  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

when  they  left  their  mother's  home  to  go  to  the  mairie  and  to 
the  church,  with  one  simple  but  awful  command  in  their 
ears — to  obey  in  all  things  the  man  by  whose  side  they  were 
to  spend  the  night,  awake  or  sleeping.  To  them  it  seemed 
impossible  that  they  should  suffer  more  in  the  strange  house 
whither  they  were  to  be  banished  than  in  the  maternal  con- 
vent. 

How  came  it  that  the  father  of  these  girls  did  nothing  to 
protect  them  from  so  crushing  a  despotism?  The  Comte 
de  Granville  had  a  great  reputation  as  a  judge,  able  and 
incorruptible,  if  sometimes  a  little  carried  away  by  party 
feeling.  Unhappily,  by  the  terms  of  a  remarkable  compro- 
mise, agreed  upon  after  ten  years  of  married  life,  husband 
and  wife  lived  apart,  each  in  their  own  suite  of  apartments. 
The  father,  who  judged  the  repressive  system  less  dangerous 
for  women  than  for  men,  kept  the  education  of  his  boys  in 
his  own  hands,  while  leaving  that  of  the  girls  to  their  mother. 
The  two  Maries,  who  could  hardly  escape  the  imposition  of 
some  tyranny,  whether  in  love  or  marriage,  would  suffer  less 
than  boys,  whose  intelligence  ought  to  be  unfettered  and 
whose  natural  spirit  would  be  broken  by  the  harsh  constraint 
of  religious  dogma,  pushed  to  an  extreme.  Of  four  victims 
the  Count  saved  two.  The  Countess  looked  on  her  sons,  both 
destined  for  the  law — the  one  for  the  magistrature  assise, 
the  other  for  the  magistrature  amovible* — as  far  too  badly 
brought  up  to  be  allowed  any  intimacy  with  their  sisters. 
All  intercourse  between  the  poor  children  was  strictly 
guarded.  When  the  Count  took  his  'boys  from  school  for  a 
day  he  was  careful  that  it  should  not  be  spent  in  the  house. 
After  luncheon  with  their  mother  and  sisters  he  would  find 
something  to  amuse  them  outside.  Eestaurants,  theatres, 
museums,  an  expedition  to  the  country  in  summer-time,  were 
their  treats.  Only  on  important  family  occasions,  such  as 
the  birthday  of  the  Countess  or  of  their  father,  New  Year's 

*The  magistrature  assise  consists  of  the  judges  who  sit  in  court,  and  are  appointed 
tor  life.  The  members  of  the  magistrature  amovible  conduct  the  examination  and 
prosecution  of  accused  persons.  They  address  the  court  standing,  and  are  not 
appointed  for  life. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  11 

Day,  and  prize-giving  days,  did  the  boys  spend  day  and  night 
under  the  paternal  roof,  in  extreme  discomfort,  and  not 
daring  to  kiss  their  sisters  under  the  eye  of  the  Countess, 
who  never  left  them  alone  together  for  an  instant.  Seeing 
so  little  of  their  brothers,  how  was  it  possible  the  poor  girls 
should  feel  any  bond  with  them  ?  On  these  days  it  was  a  per- 
petual, "Where  is  Angelique?"  "What  is  Eugenie  about?" 
"Where  can  my  children  be?"  When  her  sons  were  men- 
tioned, the  Countess  would  raise  her  cold  and  sodden  eyes 
to  Heaven,  as  though  imploring  pardon  for  having  failed  to 
snatch  them  from  ungodliness.  Her  exclamations  and  her 
silence  in  regard  to  them  were  alike  eloquent  as  the  most 
lamentable  verses  of  Jeremiah,  and  the  girls  not  unnaturally 
came  to  look  on  their  brothers  as  hopeless  reprobates. 

The  Count  gave  to  each  of  his  sons,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
a  couple  of  rooms  in  his  own  suite,  and  they  then  began  to 
study  law  under  the  direction  of  his  secretary,  a  barrister, 
to  whom  he  intrusted  the  task  of  initiating  them  into  the 
mysteries  of  their  profession. 

The  two  Maries,  therefore,  had  no  practical  knowledge 
of  what  it  is  to  have  a  brother.  On  the  occasion  of  their 
sisters'  weddings  it  happened  that  both  brothers  were  de- 
tained at  a  distance  by  important  cases :  the  one  having  then 
a  post  as  avocat  general*  at  a  distant  Court,  while  the  other 
was  making  his  first  appearance  in  the  provinces.  In  many 
families  the  reality  of  that  home-life,  which  we  are  apt  to 
picture  as  linked  together  by  the  closest  and  most  vital  ties, 
is  something  very  different. .  The  brothers  are  far  away,  en- 
grossed in  money-making,  in  pushing  their  way  in  the  world, 
or  they  are  chained  to  the  public  service;  the  sisters  are  ab- 
sorbed in  a  vortex  of  family  interests,  outside  their  own  circle. 
Tlius  the  different  members  spend  their  lives  apart  and  in- 
different to  each  other,  held  together  only  by  the  feeble  bond 
of  memory.  If  on  occasion  pride  or  self-interest  reunites 
them,  just  as  often  these  motives  act  in  the  opposite  sense  and 

*The  term  is  applied  to  all  the  substitutes  of  the  procureur  glntral,  or  Attorney 
General. 


12  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

divide  them  in  heart,  as  they  have  already  been  divided  in 
life,  so  that  it  becomes  a  rare  exception  to  find  a  family  living 
in  one  home  and  animated  by  one  spirit.  Modern  legislation, 
by  splitting  up  the  family  into  units,  has  created  that  most 
hideous  evil — the  isolation  of  the  individual. 

Angelique  and  Eugenie,  amid  the  profound  solitude  in 
which  their  youth  glided  by,  saw  their  father  but  rarely,  and 
it  was  a  melancholy  face  which  he  showed  in  his  wife's  hand- 
some rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  At  home,  as  on  the  bench, 
he  maintained  the  grave  and  dignified  bearing  of  the  judge. 
When  the  girls  had  passed  the  period  of  toys  and  dolls,  when 
they  were  beginning,  at  twelve  years  of  age,  to  think  for 
themselves,  and  had  given  up  making  fun  of  Schmucke,  they 
found  out  the  secret  of  the  cares  which  lined  the  Count's  fore- 
head. Under  the  mask  of  severity  they  could  read  traces  of 
a  kindly,  lovable  nature.  He  had  yielded  to  the  Church  his 
place  as  head  of  the  household,  his  hopes  of  wedded  happiness 
had  been  blighted,  and  his  father's  heart  was  wounded  in  its 
tenderest  spot — the  love  he  bore  his  daughters.  Sorrows  such 
as  these  rouse  strange  pity  in  the  breasts  of  girls  who  have 
never  known  tenderness.  Sometimes  he  would  stroll  in  the 
garden  between  his  daughters,  an  arm  round  each  little 
figure,  fitting  his  pace  to  their  childish  steps ;  then,  stopping 
in  the  shrubbery,  he  would  kiss  them,  one  after  the  other,  on 
the  forehead,  while  his  eyes,  his  mouth,  ajid  his  whole  ex- 
pression breathed  the  deepest  pity. 

"You  are  not  very  happy,  my  darlings,"  he  said  on  one 
such  occasion;  "but  I  shall  marry  you  early,  and  it  will  be 
a  good  day  for  me  when  I  see  you  take  wing." 

"Papa,"  said  Eugenie,  "we  have  made  up  our  minds  to 
marry  the  first  man  who  offers." 

"And  this,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  the  bitter  fruit  of  such*  a 
system.  In  trying  to  make  saints  of  them,  they  .  .  ." 

He  stopped.  Often  the  girls  were  conscious  of  a  passionate 
tenderness  in  their  father's  farewell,  or  in  the  way  he  looked 
at  them  when  by  chance  he  dined  with  their  mother.  This 
father,  whom  they  so  rarely  saw,  became  the  object  of  their 
pity,  and  whom  we  pity  we  love. 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  13 

The  marriage  of  both  sisters — welded  together  by  misfor- 
tune, as  Bita-Christina  was  by  nature— was  the  direct  result 
of  this  strict  conventual  training.  Many  men,  when  thinking 
of  marriage,  prefer  a  girl  taken  straight  from  the  convent 
and  impregnated  with  an  atmosphere  of  devotion  to  one  who 
has  been  trained  in  the  school  of  society.  There  is  no 
medium.  On  the  one  hand  is  the  girl  with  nothing  left  to 
learn,  who  reads  and  discusses  the  papers,  who  has  spun  round 
ballrooms  in  the  arms  of  countless  young  men,  who  has  seen 
every  play  and  devoured  every  novel,  whose  knees  have  been 
made  supple  by  a  dancing-master,  pressing  them  against  his 
own,  who  does  not  trouble  her  head  about  religion  and  has 
evolved  her  own  morality ;  on  the  other  is  the  guileless,  simple 
girl  of  the  type  of  Marie-Angelique  and  Marie-Eugenie. 
Possibly  the  husband's  risk  is  no  greater  in  the  one  case  than 
in  the  other,  but  the  immense  majority  of  men,  who  have 
not  yet  reached  the  age  of  Arnolphe,  would  choose  a  saintly 
Agnes  rather  than  a  budding  Celimene. 

The  two  Maries  were  identical  in  figure,  feet,  and  hands. 
Both  were  small  and  slight.  Eugenie,  the  younger,  was 
fair  like  her  mother;  Angelique,  dark  like  her  father.  But 
they  had  the  same  complexion — a  skin  of  that  mother-of- 
pearl  white  which  tells  of  a  rich  and  healthy  blood  and  against 
which  the  carnation  stands  out  in  vivid  patches,  firm  in  tex- 
ture like  the  jasmine,  and  like  it  also,  delicate,  smooth,  and 
soft  to  the  touch.  The  blue  eyes  of  Eugenie,  the  brown  eyes 
of  Angelique,  had  the  same  naive  expression  of  indifference 
and  unaffected  astonishment,  betrayed  by  the  indecisive  wav- 
ering of  the  iris  in  the  liquid  white.  Their  figures  were  good ; 
the  shoulders,  a  little  angular  now,  would  be  rounded  by  time. 
The  neck  and  bosom,  which  had  been  so  long  veiled,  appeared 
quite  startlingly  perfect  in  form,  when,  at  the  request  of  her 
husband,  each  sister  for  the  first  time  attired  herself  for  a  ball 
in  a  low-necked  dress.  What  blushes  covered  the  poor  inno- 
cent things,  so  charming  in  their  shamefacedness,  as  they 
first  saw  themselves  in  the  privacy  of  their  own  rooms;  nor 
did  the  color  fade  all  evening ! 


14  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

At  the  moment  when  this  story  opens,  with  the  younger 
Marie  consoling  her  weeping  sister,  they  are  no  longer  raw 
girls.  Each  had  nursed  an  infant — one  a  boy,  the  other 
a  girl — and  the  hands  and  arms  of  both  were  white  as  milk. 
Eugenie  had  always  seemed  something  of  a  madcap  to  her 
terrible  mother,  who  redoubled  her  watchful  care  and  severity 
on  her  behalf.  Angelique,  stately  and  proud,  had,  she 
thought,  a  soul  of  high  temper  fitted  to  guard  itself,  while 
the  skittish  Eugenie  seemed  to  demand  a  firmer  hand.  There 
are  charming  natures  of  this  kind,  misread  by  destiny,  whose 
life  ought  to  be  unbroken  sunshine,  but  who  live  and  die 
in  misery,  plagued  by  some  evil  genius,  the  victims  of  chance. 
Thus  the  sprightly,  artless  Eugenie  had  fallen  under  the 
malign  despotism  of  a  parvenu  when  released  from  the 
maternal  clutches.  Angelique,  high-strung  and  sensitive, 
had  been  sent  adrift  in  the  highest  circles  of  Parisian  society 
without  any  restraining  curb. 


CHAPTEK  II 

SISTERLY   CONFIDENCES 

MME.  DE  VANDENESSE,  it  was  plain,  was  crushed  by  the  bur- 
den of  troubles  too  heavy  for  a  mind  still  unsophisticated 
after  six  years  of  marriage.  She  lay  at  length,  her  limbs 
flaccid,  her  body  bent,  her  head  fallen  anyhow  on  the  back 
of  the  lounge.  Having  looked  in  at  the  opera  before  hurrying 
to  her  sister's,  she  had  still  a  few  flowers  in  the  plaits  of  her 
hair,  while  others  lay  scattered  on  the  carpet,  together  with 
her  gloves,  her  mantle  of  fur-lined  silk,  her  muff,  and  her 
hood.  Bright  tears  mingled  with  the  pearls  on  her  white 
bosom  and  brimming  eyes  told  a  tale  in  gruesome  contrast 
with  the  luxury  around.  The  Countess  had  no  heart  for 
further  words. 

"You  poor  darling,"  said  Mme.  du  Tillet,  "what  strange 


Copyright,  1900,  byj.  D.  A. 


The  Countess  de  Vandenesse. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  15 

delusion  as  to  my  married  life  made  you  come  to  me  for 
help?" 

It  seemed  as  though  the  torrent  of  her  sister's  grief  had 
forced  these  words  from  the  heart  of  the  banker's  wife,  as 
melting  snow  will  set  free  stones  that  are  held  the  fastest 
in  the  river's  bed.  The  Countess  gazed  stupidly  on  her  with 
fixed  eyes,  in  which  terror  had  dried  the  tears. 

"Can  it  be  that  the  waters  have  closed  over  your  head  too, 
my  sweet  one  ?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nay,  dear,  my  troubles  won't  lessen  yours." 

"But  tell  me  them,  dear  child.  Do  you  think  I  am  so 
sunk  in  self  already  as  not  to  listen  ?  Then  we  are  comrades 
again  in  suffering  as  of  old !" 

"But  we  suffer  apart,"  sadly  replied  Mme.  du  Tillet.  "We 
live  in  opposing  camps.  It  is  my  turn  to  visit  the  Tuileries 
now  that  you  have  ceased  to  go.  Our  husbands  belong  to 
rival  parties.  I  am  the  wife  of  an  ambitious  banker,  a  bad 
man.  Your  husband,  sweetest,  is  kind,  noble,  generous " 

"Ah !  do  not  reproach  me,"  cried  the  Countess.  "N"o 
woman  has  the  right  to  do  so,  who  has  not  suffered  the 
weariness  of  a  tame,  colorless  life  and  passed  from  it  straight 
to  the  paradise  of  love.  She  must  have  known  the  bliss  of 
living  her  whole  life  in  another,  of  espousing  the  ever-vary- 
ing emotions  of  a  poet's  soul.  In  every  flight  of  his  imagina- 
tion, in  all  the  efforts  of  his  ambition,  in  the  great  part  he 
plays  upon  the  stage  of  life,  she  must  have  borne  her  share, 
suffering  in  his  pain  and  mounting  on  the  wings  of  his 
measureless  delights ;  and  all  this  while  never  losing  her  cold, 
impassive  demeanor  before  a  prying  world.  Yes,  dear,  a 
tumult  of  emotion  may  rage  within,  while  one  sits  by  the  fire 
at  home,  quietly  and  comfortably  like  this.  And  yet  what 
joy  to  have  at  every  instant  one  overwhelming  interest 
which  expands  the  heart  and  makes  it  live  in  every  fibre. 
Nothing  is  indifferent  to  you;  your  very  life  seems  to  de- 
pend on  a  drive,  which  gives  you  the  chance  of  seeing  in  the 
crowd  the  one  man  before  the  flash  of  whose  eye  the  sun- 
light pales;  you  tremble  if  he  is  late,  and  could  strangle 


16  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

the  bore  who  steals  from  you  one  of  those  precious  moments 
when  happiness  throbs  in  every  vein!  To  be  alive,  only  to 
be  alive  is  rapture.  Think  of  it,  dear,  to  live,  when  so 
many  women  would  give  the  world  to  feel  as  I  do,  and  can- 
not. Kemember,  child,  that  for  this  poetry  of  life  there  is 
but  one  season — the  season  of  youth.  Soon,  very  soon,  will 
come  the  chills  of  winter.  Oh !  if  you  were  rich  as  I  am 
in  these  living  treasures  of  the  heart  and  were  threatened 
with  losing  them ' 

Mme.  du  Tillet,  terrified,  had  hidden  her  face  in  her 
hands  during  this  wild  rhapsody.  At  last,  seeing  the  warm 
tears  on  her  sister's  cheek,  she  began: 

"I  never  dreamed  of  reproaching  you,  my  darling.  Your 
words  have,  in  a  single  instant,  stirred  in  my  heart  more 
burning  thoughts  than  all  my  tears  have  quenched,  for  in- 
deed the  life  I  lead  might  well  plead  within  me  for  a  pas- 
sion such  as  you  describe.  Let  me  cling  to  the  belief 
that  if  we  had  seen  more  of  each  other  we  should  not  have 
drifted  to  this  point.  The  knowledge  of  my  sufferings  would 
have  enabled  you  to  realize  your  own  happiness,  and  I  might 
perhaps  have  learned  from  you  courage  to  resist  the  tyranny 
which  has  crushed  the  sweetness  out  of  my  life.  Your 
misery  is  an  accident  which  chance  may  remedy,  mine  is  un- 
ceasing. My  husband  neither  has  real  affection  for  me  nor 
does  he  trust  me.  I  am  a  mere  peg  for  his  magnificence, 
the  hall-mark  of  his  ambition,  a  tidbit  for  his  vanity. 

"Ferdinand" — and  she  struck  her  hand  upon  the  mantel- 
piece— "is  hard  and  smooth  like  this  marble.  He  is  sus- 
picious of  me.  If  I  ask  anything  for  myself  I  know  before- 
hand that  refusal  is  certain;  but  for  whatever  may  tickle 
his  self-importance  or  advertise  his  wealth  I  have  not  even 
to  express  a  desire.  He  decorates  my  rooms,  and  spends 
lavishly  on  my  table;  my  servants,  my  boxes  at  the  theatre, 
all  the  trappings  of  my  life  are  of  the  smartest.  He  grudges 
nothing  to  his  vanity.  His  children's  baby-linen  must  be 
trimmed  with  lace,  but  he  would  never  trouble  about  their 
real  needs,  and  would  shut  his  ears  to  their  cries.  Can 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  17 

you  understand  such  a  state  of  things?  I  go  to  court 
loaded  with  diamonds,  and  my  ornaments  are  of  the  most 
costly  whenever  I  am  in  society;  yet  I  have  not  a  sou  of  my 
own.  Mme.  du  Tillet,  whom  envious  onlookers  no  doubt 
suppose  to  be  rolling  in  wealth,  cannot  lay  her  hand  on  a 
hundred  francs.  If  the  father  cares  little  for  his  children, 
he  cares  still  less  for  their  mother.  Never  does  he  allow  me 
to  forget  that  I  have  been  paid  for  as  a  chattel,  and  that  my 
personal  fortune,  which  has  never  been  in  my  possession, 
has  been  filched  from  him.  If  he  stood  alone  I  might  have 
a  chance  of  fascinating  him,  but  there  is  an  alien  influence 
at  work.  He  is  under  the  thumb  of  a  woman,  a  notary's 
widow,  over  fifty,  but  who  still  reckons  on  her  charms,  and 
I  can  see  very  well  that  while  she  lives  I  shall  never  be  free. 

"My  whole  life  here  is  planned  out  like  a  sovereign's.  A 
bell  is  rung  for  my  lunch  and  dinner  as  at  your  castle.  I 
never  miss  going  to  the  Bois  at  a  certain  hour,  accompanied 
by  two  footmen  in  full  livery,  and  returning  at  a  fixed  lime. 
In  place  of  giving  orders,  I  receive  them.  At  balls  and  the 
theatre,  a  lacquey  comes  up  to  me  saying,  'Your  carriage 
waits,  madame/  and  I  have  to  go,  whether  I  am  enjoying 
myself  or  not.  Ferdinand  would  be  vexed  if  I  did  not  carry 
out  the  code  of  rules  drawn  up  for  his  wife,  and  I  am  afraid 
of  him.  Surrounded  by  all  this  hateful  splendor,  I  some- 
times look  back  with  regret,  and  begin  to  think  we  had  a  kind 
mother.  At  least  she  left  us  our  nights,  and  I  had  you  to 
talk  to.  In  my  sufferings,  then,  I  had  a  loving  companion, 
but  this  gorgeous  house  is  a  desert  to  me." 

It  was  for  the  Countess  now  to  play  the  comforter.  As 
this  tale  of  misery  fell  from  her  sister's  lips  she  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it  with  tears. 

"How  is  it  possible  for  me  to  help  you?"  Eugenie  went 
on  in  a  low  voice.  "If  he  were  to  find  us  together  he  would 
suspect  something.  He  would  want  to  know  what  we  had 
been  talking  about  this  hour,  and  iL  is  not  easy  to  put  off 
the  scent  any  one  so  false  and  full  of  wiles.  He  would  be 
sure  to  lay  a  trap  for  me.  But  enough  of  my  troubles;  let 


18  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

us  think  of  you.  Your  forty  thousand  francs,  darling,  would 
be  nothing  to  Ferdinand.  He  and  the  Baron  de  Nucingen, 
another  of  these  rich  bankers,  are  accustomed  to  handle  mill- 
ions. Sometimes  at  dinner  I  hear  them  talking  of  things  to 
make  your  flesh  creep.  Du  Tillet  knows  I  am  no  talker,  so 
they  speak  freely  before  me,  confident  that  it  will  go  no  fur- 
ther, and  I  can  assure  you  that  highway  murder  would  be 
an  act  of  mercy  compared  to  some  of  their  financial  schemes. 
Nucingen  and  he  make  as  little  of  ruining  a  man  as  I  do 
of  all  their  display.  Among  the  people  who  come  to  see  me, 
often  there  are  poor  dupes  whose  affairs  I  have  heard  settled 
overnight,  and  who  are  plunging  into  speculations  which  will 
beggar  them.  How  I  long  to  act  Leonarde  in  the  brigands' 
cave,  and  cry,  'Beware !'  But  what  would  become  of  me  ?  I 
hold  my  tongue,  but  this  luxurious  mansion'  is  nothing  but 
a  den  of  cut-throats-.  And  du  Tillet  and  Nucingen  scatter 
banknotes  in  handfuls  for  any  whim  that  takes  their  fancy. 
Ferdinand  has  bought  the  site  of  the  old  castle  at  Tillet, 
and  intends  rebuilding  it,  and  then  adding  a  forest  and 
magnificent  grounds.  He  says  his  son  will  be  a  count  and 
his  grandson  a  peer.  Nucingen  is  tired  of  his  house  in  the 
Hue  Saint-Lazare  and  is  having  a  palace  built.  His  wife 
is  a  friend  of  mine.  .  .  .  Ah!"  she  cried,  "she  might 
be  of  use  to  us.  She  is  not  in  awe  of  her  husband,  her 
property  is  in  her  own  hands;  she  is  the  person  to  save 
you." 

"Darling/'  cried  Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  throwing  herself 
into  her  sister's  arms  and  bursting  into  tears,  "there  are  only 
a  few  hours  left.  Let  us  go  there  to-night,  this  very  in- 
stant." 

"How  can  I  go  out  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  ?" 

"My  carriage  is  here." 

"Well,  what  are  you  two  plotting  here?"  It  was  du  Tillet 
who  threw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

A  false  geniality  lit  up  the  blank  countenance  which  met 
the  sisters'  gaze.  They  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in  talk- 
ing to  notice  the  wheels  of  du  Tillet's  carriage,  and  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  1? 

thick  carpets  had  muffled  the  sound  of  his  steps.  The 
Countess,  who  had  an  indulgent  husband  and  was  well  used 
to  society,  had  acquired  a  tact  and  address  such  as  her  sister, 
passing  straight  from  a  mother's  to  a  husband's  yoke,  had 
had  no  opportunity  of  cultivating.  She  was  able  then  to 
save  the  situation,  which  she  saw  that  Eugenie's  terror  was 
on  the  point  of  betraying,  by  a  frank  reply. 

"I  thought  my  sister  wealthier  than  she  is,"  she  said,  look- 
ing her  brother-in-law  in  the  face.  "Women  sometimes  get 
into  difficulties  which  they  don't  care  to  speak  of  to  their 
husbands — witness  Napoleon  and  Josephine — and  I  came  to 
ask  a  favor  of  her." 

"There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that.  Eugenie  is  a 
rich  woman,"  replied  du  Tillet,  in  a  tone  of  honeyed 
acerbity. 

"Only  for  you,"  said  the  Countess,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  said  du  Tillet,  who  was  not 
sorry  at  the  prospect  of  getting  his  sister-in-law  into  his 
toils. 

"How  dense  you  are !  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  we  want  to 
keep  our  husbands  out  of  this?"  was  the  prudent  reply  of 
Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  who  feared  to  place  herself  at  the 
mercy  of  the  man  whose  character  had  by  good  luck  just  been 
sketched  by  her  sister.  "I  shall  come  and  see  Eugenie  to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow?  No,"  said  the  banker  coldly.  "Mme.  du 
Tillet  dines  to-morrow  with  a  future  peer  of  the  realm, 
Baron  de  Nucingen,  who  is  resigning  to  me  his  seat  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies." 

"Won't  you  allow  her  to  accept  my  box  at  the  opera?" 
said  the  Countess,  without  exchanging  even  a  look  with  her 
sister,  in  her  terror  lest  their  secret  understanding  should  be 
betrayed. 

"Thank  you,  she  has  her  own,"  said  du  Tillet,  offended. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  shall  see  her  there,"  replied  the 
Countess. 

"It  will  be  the  first  time  you  have  done  us  that  honor,"  said 
du  Tillet. 


20  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

The  Countess  felt  the  reproach  and  began  to  laugh. 

"Keep  your  mind  easy,  you  shan't  be  asked  to  pay  this 
time,"  she  said. — "Good-bye,  darling." 

"The  jade !"  cried  du  Tillet,  picking  up  the  flowers  which 
had  fallen  from  the  Countess'  hair.  "You  would  do  well," 
he  said  to  his  wife,  "to  take  a  lesson  from  Mme.  de  Van- 
denesse.  I  should  like  to  see  you  as  saucy  in  society  as  she 
was  here  just  now.  Your  want  of  style  and  spirit  are  enough 
to  drive  a  man  wild." 

For  all  reply,  Eugenie  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Well,  madame,  what  have  you  two  been  about  here?"  said 
the  banker  after  a  pause,  pointing  to  the  flowers.  "What 
has  happened  to  bring  your  sister  to  your  box  to-morrow  ?" 

In  order  to  get  away  to  her  bedroom,  and  escape  the  cross- 
questioning  she  dreaded,  the  poor  thrall  made  an  excuse  of 
being  sleepy.  But  du  Tillet  took  his  wife's  arm  and,  drag- 
ging her  back,  planted  her  before  him  beneath  the  full 
blaze  of  the  candles,  flaming  in  their  silver-gilt  branches  be- 
tween two  beautiful  bunches  of  flowers.  Fixing  her  eyes  with 
his  keen  glance,  he  began  with  cold  deliberation'. 

"Your  sister  came  to  borrow  forty  thousand  francs  to  pay 
the  debts  of  a  man  in  whom  she  is  interested,  and  who, 
within  three  days,  will  be  under  lock  and  key  in  the  Eue  de 
Clichy.  He's  too  precious  to  be  left  loose." 

The  miserable  woman  tried  to  repress  the  nervous  shiver 
which  ran  through  her. 

"You  gave  me  a  fright,"  she  said.  "But  you  know  that 
my  sister  has  too  much  principle  and  too  much  affection  for 
her  husband  to  take  that  sort  of  interest  in  any  man." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied  drily.  "Girls  brought  up  as 
you  were,  in  a  very  strait-laced  and  puritan  fashion,  al- 
ways pant  for  liberty  and  happiness,  and  the  happiness  they 
have  never  comes  up  to  what  they  imagined.  Those  are  the 
girls  that  make  bad  wives." 

"Speak  for  me  if  you  like,"  said  poor  Eugenie,  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  irony,  "but  respect  my  sister.  The  Comtesse  de 
Vandenesse  is  too  happy,  too  completely  trusted  by  her  hus- 


Du  Tillet  took  his  wife's  arm  and    .    .    .    planted  her  before  him 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  21 

band,  not  to  be  attached  to  him.  Besides,  supposing  what 
you  say  were  true,  she  would  not  have  told  me." 

"It  is  as  I  said,"  persisted  du  Tillet,  "and  I  forbid  you 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  matter.  It  is  to  my  inter- 
est that  the  man  go  to  prison.  Let  that  suffice." 

Mme.  du  Tillet  left  the  room. 

"She  is  sure  to  disobey  me,"  said  du  Tillet  to  himself,  left 
alone  in  the  boudoir,  "and  if  I  keep  my  eye  on  them  I  may 
be  able  to  find  out  what  they  are  up  to.  Poor  fools,  to  pit 
themselves  against  us!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  to  rejoin  his  wife, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  his  slave. 


CHAPTEE  III 

THE  STOEY  OF  A  HAPPY  WOMAN 

THE  confession  which  Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  had  poured 
into  her  sister's  ear  was  so  intimately  connected  with  her 
history  during  the  six  preceding  years  that  a  brief  narrative 
of  the  chief  incidents  of  her  married  life  is  necessary  to  its 
understanding. 

Felix  de  Yandenesse  was  one  of  the  band  of  distinguished 
men  who  owed  their  fortune  to  the  Restoration,  till  a  short- 
sighted policy  excluded  them,  as  followers  of  Martignac,  from 
the  inner  circle  of  Government.  In  the  last  days  of  Charles 
X.  he  was  banished  with  some  others  to  the  Upper  Chamber; 
and  this  disgrace,  though  in  his  eyes  only  temporary,  led 
him  to  think  of  marriage.  He  was  the  more  inclined  to  it 
from  a  sort  of  nausea  of  intrigue  and  gallantry  not  uncom- 
mon with  men  when  the  hour  of  youth's  gay  frenzy  is  past. 
There  comes  then  a  critical  moment  when  the  serious  side  of 
social  ties  makes  itself  felt.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  had  had 
his  bright  and  his  dark  hours,  but  the  latter  predominated, 
as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  a  man  who  has  quite  early  in 


22  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

life  become  acquainted  with  passion  in  its  noblest  form. 
The  initiated  become  fastidious.  A  long  experience  of 
life  and  study  of  character  reconciles  them  at  last  to  the 
second-best,  when  the}'  take  refuge  in  a  universal  tolerance. 
Having  lost  all  illusions,  they  are  proof  against  guile,  yet 
they  wear  their  cynicism  with  a  grace,  and,  being  prepared 
for  the  worst,  are  saved  the  pangs  of  disappointment. 

In  spite  of  this,  Felix  still  passed  for  one  of  the  handsomest 
and  most  agreeable  men  in  Paris.  With  women  his  reputa- 
tion was  largely  due  to  one  of  the  noblest  of  their  con- 
temporaries, who  was  said  to  have  died  of  a  broken  heart 
for  him ;  but  it  was  the  beautiful  Lady  Dudley  who  had  the 
chief  hand  in  forming  him.  In  the  eyes  of  many  Paris 
ladies  Felix  was  a  hero  of  romance,  owing  not  a  few  of  his 
conquests  to  his  evil  repute.  Madame  de  Manerville  had 
closed  the  chapter  of  his  intrigues.  Although  not  a  Don 
Juan,  he  retired  from  the  world  of  love,  as  from  that  of 
politics,  a  disillusioned  man.  That  ideal  type  of  woman  and 
of  love  which,  for  his  misfortune,  had  brightened  and  domi- 
nated his  youth,  he  despaired  of  finding  again.  At  the  age 
of  thirty,  Count  Felix  resolved  to  cut  short  by  marriage 
pleasures  which  had  begun  to  pall.  On  one  point  he  was 
determined :  he  would  have  none  but  a  girl  trained  in  the 
strictest  dogmas  of  Catholicism.  No  sooner  did  he  hear  how 
the  Comtesse  de  Granville  brought  up  her  daughters  than 
he  asked  for  the  hand  of  the  elder.  His  own  mother  had 
been  a  domestic  tyrant ;  and  he  could  still  remember  enough 
of  his  dismal  childhood  to  descry,  through  the  veil  of 
maidenly  modesty,  what  effect  had  been  produced  on  a  young 
girl's  character  by  such  a  bondage,  to  see  whether  she  were 
sulky,  soured,  and  inclined  to  revolt,  or  had  remained  sweet 
and  loving,  responsive  to  the  voice  of  nobler  feeling.  Tyranny 
produces  two  results,  exactly  opposite  in  character,  and  which 
are  symbolized  in  those  two  great  types  of  the  slave  in 
classical  times — Epictetus  and  Spartacus.  The  one  is  hatred 
with  its  evil  train,  the  other,  meekness  with  its  Christian 
graces.  The  Comte  de  Vandenesse  read  the  history  of  his 
life  again  in  Marie-Ang£lique  de  Granville. 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  23 

In  thus  choosing  for  wife  a  young  girl  in  her  fresh  in- 
nocence and  purity,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  beforehand, 
as  befitted  a  man  old  in  everything  but  years,  to  unite  pa- 
ternal with  conjugal  affection.  He  was  conscious  that  in  him 
politics  and  society  had  blighted  feeling,  and  that  he  had  only 
the  dregs  of  a  used-up  life  to  offer  in  exchange  for  one  in 
the  bloom  of  youth.  The  flowers  of  spring  would  be  matched 
with  winter  frosts,  hoary  experience  with  a  saucy,  impulsive 
waywardness.  Having  thus  impartially  taken  stock  of  his 
position,  he  entrenched  himself  in  his  married  quarters  with 
an  ample  store  of  provisions.  Indulgence  and  trust  were  his 
two  sheet  anchors.  Mothers  with  marriageable  daughters 
ought  to  look  out  for  men  of  this  stamp,  men  with  brains 
to  act  as  protecting  divinity,  with  worldly  wisdom  to  diagnose 
like  a  surgeon,  and  with  experience  to  take  a  mother's  place 
in  warding  off  evil.  These  are  the  three  cardinal  virtues  in 
matrimony. 

The  refinements  and  luxuries  to  which  his  habits  as  a  man 
of  fashion  and  of  pleasure  had  accustomed  Felix,  his  train- 
ing in  affairs  of  state,  the  insight  of  a  life  alternately  de- 
voted to  action,  reflection,  and  literature;  all  the  resources, 
in  short,  at  his  command  were  applied  intelligently  to  work 
out  his  wife's  happiness. 

Marie-Angelique  passed  at  once  from  the  maternal  purga- 
tory to  the  wedded  paradise  prepared  for  her  by  Felix  in 
their  house  in  the  Eue  du  Rocher,  where  every  trifle  breathed 
of  distinction  at  the  same  time  that  the  conventions  of 
fashion  were  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  that  gracious  spon- 
taneity natural  to  warm  young  hearts.  She  began  by  enjoy- 
ing to  the  full  the  merely  material  pleasures  of  life,  her  hus- 
band for  two  years  acting  as  major-domo.  Felix  expounded 
to  his  wife  very  gradually  and  with  great  tact  the  facts  of 
life,  initiated  her  by  degrees  into  the  mysteries  of  the  best 
society,  taught  her  the  genealogies  of  all  families  of  rank, 
instructed  her  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  directed  her  in  the 
arts  of  dress  and  conversation,  took  her  to  all  the  theatres, 
and  put  her  through  a  course  of  literature  and  history.  He 


24  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

carried  out  this  education  with  the  assiduity  of  a  lover,  a 
father,  a  master,  and  a  husband  combined ;  but  with  a  wise 
discretion  he  allowed  neither  amusements  nor  studies  to  un- 
dermine his  wife's  faith.  In  short,  he  acquitted  himself  of 
his  task  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  had  the  gratification  of 
seeing  his  pupil,  at  the  end  of  four  years,  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  striking  women  of  her  time. 

Marie-Angelique's  feelings  towards  her  husband  were  pre- 
cisely such  as  he  wished  to  inspire — true  friendship,  lively 
gratitude,  sisterly  affection,  with  a  dash  of  wifely  fondness 
on  occasion,  not  passing  the  due  limits  of  dignity  and  self- 
respect.  She  was  a  good  mother  to  her  child. 

Thus  Felix,  without  any  appearance  of  coercion,  attached 
his  wife  to  himself  by  all  possible  ties,  reckoning  on  the  force 
of  habit  to  keep  his  heaven  cloudless.  Only  men  practised 
in  worldly  arts  and  who  have  run  the  gamut  of  disillusion 
in  politics  and  love,  have  the  knowledge  necessary  for  acting 
on  this  system.  Felix  found  in  it  also  the  pleasure  which 
painters,  authors,  and  great  architects  take  in  their  work, 
while  in  addition  to  the  artistic  delight  in  creation  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  contemplating  the  result  and  admiring  in 
his  wife  a  woman  of  polished  but  unaffected  manners  and  an 
unforced  wit,  a  maiden  and  a  mother,  modestly  attractive, 
unfettered  and  yet  bound. 

The  history  of  a  happy  household  is  like  that  of  a  pros- 
perous state;  it  can  be  summed  up  in  half  a  dozen  words, 
and  gives  no  scope  for  fine  writing.  Moreover,  the  only 
explanation  of  happiness  is  the  fact  that  it  exists,  these 
four  years  present  nothing  but  the  gray  wash  of  an  eternal 
love-making,  insipid  as  manna,  and  as  exciting  as  the  romance 
of  Astraa. 

In  1833,  however,  this  edifice  of  happiness,  so  carefully 
put  together  by  Felix,  was  on  the  point  of  falling  to  the 
ground;  the  foundations  had  been  sapped  without  his 
knowledge.  The  fact  is,  the  heart  of  a  woman  of  five-and- 
twenty  is  not  that  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  any  more  than  the 
heart  of  a  woman  of  forty  is  that  of  one  ten  years  younger. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  25 

A  woman's  life  has  four  epochs,  and  each  epoch  creates  a 
new  woman.  Vandenesse  was  certainly  not  ignorant  of  the 
iaws  which  determine  this  development,  induced  by  oiir 
modern  habits,  but  he  neglected  to  apply  them  in  his  own 
case.  Thus  the  soundest  grammarian  may  be  caught  tripping 
when  he  turns  author;  the  greatest  general  on  the  field  of 
battle,  under  stress  of  fire,  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  accidents 
of  the  ground,  will  cast  to  the  winds  a  theoretic  rule  of  mili- 
tary science.  The  man  whose  action  habitually  bears  the 
stamp  of  his  mind  is  a  genius,  but  the  greatest  genius  is  not 
always  equal  to  himself,  or  he  would  cease  to  be  human. 

Four  years  had  passed  of  unruffled  calm,  four  years  of 
tuneful  concert  without  one  jarring  note..  The  Countess, 
under  these  influences,  felt  her  nature  expanding  like  a 
healthy  plant  in  good  soil  under  the  warm  kisses  of  a  sun 
shining  in  unclouded  azure,  and  she  now  began  to  question 
her  heart.  The  crisis  in  her  life,  which  this  tale  is  to  un- 
fold, would  be  unintelligible  but  for  some  explanations  which 
may  perhaps  extenuate  in  the  eyes  of  women  the  guilt  of 
this  young  Countess,  happy  wife  and  happy  mother,  who  at 
first  sight  might  seem  inexcusable. 

Life  is  the  result  of  a  balance  between  two  opposing  forces ; 
the  absence  of  either  is  injurious  to  the  creature.  Van- 
denesse, in  piling  up  satisfaction,  had  quenched  desire,  that 
lord  of  the  universe,  at  whose  disposal  lie  vast  stores  of  moral 
energy.  Extreme  heat,  extreme  suffering,  unalloyed  happi- 
ness, like  all  abstract  principles,  reign  over  a  barren  desert. 
They  demand  solitude,  and  will  suffer  no  existence  but  their 
own.  Vandenesse  was  not  a  woman,  and  it  is  women  only 
who  know  the  art  of  giving  variety  to  a  state  of  bliss.  Hence 
their  coquetry,  their  coldness,  their  tremors,  their  tempers, 
and  that  ingenious  battery  of  unreason,  by  which  they  de- 
molish to-day  what  yesterday  they  found  entirely  satisfac- 
tory. Constancy  in  a  man  may  pall,  in  a  woman  never, 
Vandenesse  was  too  thoroughly  good-hearted  wantonly  to 
plague  the  woman  he  loved ;  the  heaven  into  which  he  plunged 
her  could  not  be  too  ardent  or  too  cloudless.  The  problem 


26  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

of  perpetual  felicity  is  one  the  solution  of  which  is  reserved 
for  another  and  higher  world.  Here  below,  even  the  most 
inspired  of  poets  do  not  fail  to  bore  their  readers  when  they 
attempt  to  sing  of  Paradise.  The  rock  on  which  Dante  split 
was  to  be  the  ruin  also  of  Vandenesse;  all  honor  to  a  des- 
perate courage ! 

His  wife  began  at  last  to  find  so  well-regulated  an  Eden 
a  little  monotonous.  The  perfect  happiness  of  Eve  in  her 
terrestrial  paradise  produced  in  her  the  nausea  which  comes 
from  living  too  much  on  sweets.  A  longing  seized  her,  as  it 
seized  Kivarol  on  reading  Morian,  to  come  across  some  wolf 
in  the  sheepfold.  This,  it  appears,  has  been  the  meaning 
in  all  ages  of  that  symbolical  serpent  to  whom  the  first  woman 
made  advances,  some  day  no  doubt  when  she  was  feeling 
bored.  The  moral  of  this  may  not  commend  itself  to  cer- 
tain Protestants  who  take  Genesis  more  seriously  than  the 
Jews  themselves,  but  the  situation  of  Madame  de  Vandenesse 
requires  no  biblical  images  to  explain  it.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  force  within,  which  found  no  exercise.  She  was  happy, 
but  her  happiness  caused  her  no  pangs;  it  was  placid  and 
uneventful;  she  was  not  haunted  by  the  dread  of  losing  it. 
It  arrived  every  morning  with  the  same  smile  and  sunshine, 
the  same  soft  words.  Not  a  zephyr's  breath  wrinkled  this 
calm  expanse ;  she  longed  for  a  ripple  on  the  glassy  surface. 

There  was  something  childish  in  all  this,  which  may  partly 
excuse  her;  but  society  is  no  more  lenient  in  its  judgments 
than  was  the  Jehovah  of  Genesis.  The  Countess  was  quite 
enough  woman  of  the  world  now  to  know  how  improper  these 
feelings  were,  and  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  confide 
them  to  her  "darling  husband."  This  was  the  most  impas- 
sioned epithet  her  innocence  could  devise,  for  it  is  given  to 
no  one  to  forge  in  cold  blood  that  delicious  language  of  hy- 
perbole which  love  dictates  to  its  victims  at  the  stake.  Van- 
denesse, pleased  with  this  pretty  reserve,  applied  his  arts  to 
keep  his  wife  within  the  temperate  zone  of  wedded  fervor. 
Moreover,  this  model  husband  wanted  to  be  loved  for  him- 
self, and  judged  unworthy  of  an  honorable  man  those  tricks 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  27 

of  the  trade  which  might  have  imposed  upon  his  wife 
or  awakened  her  feeling.  He  would  owe  nothing  to  the  ex- 
pedients of  wealth.  The  Comtesse  Marie  would  smile  to  see 
a  shabby  turnout  in  the  Bois,  and  turn  her  eyes  complacently 
to  her  own  elegant  equipage  and  the  horses  which,  harnessed 
in  the  English  fashion,  moved  with  very  free  action  and  kept 
their  distance  perfectly.  Felix  would  not  stoop  to  gather  the 
fruit  of  all  his  labors;  his  lavish  expenditure,  and  the  good 
taste  which  guided  it,  were  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course 
by  his  wife,  ignorant  that  to  them  she  owed  her  perfect  im- 
munity from  vexations  or  wounding  comparisons.  It  was 
the  same  throughout.  Kindness  is  not  without  its  rocks 
ahead.  People  are  apt  to  put  it  down  to  an  easy  temper, 
and  seldom  recognize  it  as  the  secret  striving  of  a  generous 
nature;  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  the  ill-natured  get  credit 
for  all  the  evil  they  refrain  from. 

About  this  period  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  was  sufficiently 
drilled  in  the  practices  of  society  to  abandon  the  insignificant 
part  of  timid  supernumerary,  all  eyes  and  ears,  which  even 
Grisi  is  said,  once  on  a  time,  to  have  played  in  the  choruses 
of  the  La  Scala  theatre.  The  young  Countess  felt  herself 
equal  to  the  part  of  prima  donna,  and  made  some  essays  in  it. 
To  the  great  satisfaction  of  Felix,  she  began  to  take  her  share 
in  conversation.  Sharp  repartees  and  shrewd  reflections, 
which  were  the  fruit  of  talks  with  her  husband,  brought  her 
into  notice,  and  this  success  emboldened  her.  Vandenesse, 
whose  wife  had  always  been  allowed  to  be  pretty,  was  charmed 
when  she  showed  herself  clever  also.  On  her  return  from  the 
ball  or  concert  or  rout  where  she  had  shone,  Marie,  as  she 
laid  aside  her  finery,  would  turn  to  Felix  and  say  with  a  little 
air  of  prim  delight,  "Please,  have  I  done  well  to-night?" 

At  this  stage  the  Countess  began  to  rouse  jealousy  in  the 
breasts  of  certain  women,  amongst  whom  was  the  Marquise 
de  Listomere,  her  husband's  sister,  who  hitherto  had  pa- 
tronized Marie,  looking  on  her  as  a  good  foil  for  her  own 
charms.  Poor  innocent  victim  !  A  Countess  with  the  sacred 
name  of  Marie,  beautiful,  witty,  and  good,  a  musician  and 


28  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

not  a  flirt — no  wonder  society  whetted  its  teeth.  Felix  fle 
Vandenesse  numbered  amongst  his  acquaintance  several 
women  who — although  their  connection  with  him  was  broken 
off,  whether  by  their  own  doing  or  his — were  by  no  means  in- 
different to  his  marriage.  When  these  ladies  saw  in  Marie 
de  Vandenesse  a  sheepish  little  woman  with  red  hands,  rather 
silent,  and  to  all  appearance  stupid  also,  they  considered 
themselves  sufficiently  avenged. 

Then  came  the  disasters  of  July  1830,  and  for  the  space 
of  two  years  society  was  broken  up.  Kich  people  spent  the 
troubled  interval  on  their  estates  or  traveling  in  Europe ;  and 
the  salons  hardly  reopened  before  1833.  The  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  sulked,  but  it  admitted  as  neutral  ground  a 
few  houses,  amongst  others,  that  of  the  Ambassador  of  Aus- 
tria. In  these  select  rooms  legitimist  society  and  the  new 
society  met,  represented  by  their  most  fashionable  leaders. 
Vandenesse,  though  strong  in  his  convictions  and  attached 
by  a  thousand  ties  of  sympathy  and  gratitude  to  the  exiled 
family,  did  not  feel  himself  bound  to  follow  his  party  in  its 
stupid  fanaticism.  At  a  critical  moment  he  had  performed 
his  duty  at  the  risk  of  life  by  breasting  the  flood  of  popular 
fury  in  order  to  propose  a  compromise.  He  could  afford 
therefore  to  take  his  wife  into  a  society  which  could  not  pos- 
sibly expose  his  good  faith  to  suspicion. 

Vandenesse's  former  friends  hardly  recognized  the  young 
bride  in  the  graceful,  sparkling,  and  gentle  Countess,  who 
took  her  place  with  all  the  breeding  of  the  high-born  lady. 
Mmes.  d'Espard  and  de  Manerville,  Lady  Dudley,  and  other 
ladies  of  less  distinction  felt  the  stirring  of  a  brood  of  vipers 
in  their  hearts;  the  dulcet  moan  of  angry  pride  piped  in 
their  ears.  The  happiness  of  Felix  enraged  them,  and  they 
would  have  given  a  brand-new  pair  of  shoes  to  do  him  an  ill 
turn.  In  place  of  showing  hostility  to  the  Countess,  these 
amiable  intriguers  buzzed  about  her  with  protestations  of 
extreme  friendliness  and  sang  her  praises  to  their  male 
friends.  Felix,  who  perfectly  understood  their  little  game, 
kept  his  eye  upon  their  intercourse  with  Marie  and  warned 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  29 

her  to  be  upon  her  guard.  Divining,  every  one  of  them,  the 
anxiety  which  their  assiduity  caused  the  Count,  they  could 
not  pardon  his  suspicions.  They  redoubled  their  nattering 
attentions  to  their  rival,  and  in  this  way  contrived  an  im- 
mense success  for  her,  to  the  disgust  of  the  Marquise  de  Lis- 
tomeie,  who  was  quite  in  the  dark  about  it  all.  The  Comtesse 
Felix  de  Vandenesse  was  everywhere  pointed  to  as  the  most 
charming  and  brilliant  woman  in  Paris;  and  Marie's  other 
sister-in-law,  the  Marquise  Charles  de  Vandenesse,  endured 
many  mortifications  from  the  confusion  produced  by  the 
similarity  of  name  and  the  comparisons  to  which  it  gave  rise. 
For,  though  the  Marquise  was  also  a  handsome  and  clever 
woman,  the  Countess  had  the  advantage  of  her  in  being 
twelve  years  younger,  a  point  of  which  her  rivals  did  not 
fail  to  make  use.  They  well  knew  what  bitterness  the  suc- 
cess of  the  Countess  would  infuse  into  her  relations  with  her 
sisters-in-law,  who,  indeed,  were  most  chilling  and  disagree- 
able to  Marie-Angelique  in  her  triumph. 

And  so  danger  lurked  in  the  family,  enmity  in  friendship. 
It  is  well  known  how  the  literature  of  that  day  tried  to 
overcome  the  indifference  of  the  public,  engrossed  in  the 
exciting  political  drama,  by  the  production  of  more  or  less 
Byronic  works,  exclusively  occupied  with  illicit  love  affairs. 
Conjugal  infidelity  furnished  at  this  time  the  sole  material 
of  magazines,  novels,  and  plays.  This  perennial  theme  came 
more  than  ever  into  fashion.  The  lover,  that  nightmare  of 
the  husband,  was  everywhere,  except  perhaps  in  the  family 
circle,  which  saw  less  of  him  during  that  reign  of  the  middle- 
class  than  at  any  other  period.  When  the  streets  are  ablaze 
with  light  and  "Stop  thief"  is  shouted  from  every  window, 
it  is  hardly  the  moment  robbers  choose  to  be  abroad.  If,  in 
the  course  of  those  years,  so  fruitful  in  civic,  political,  and 
moral  upheavals,  an  occasional  domestic  misadventure  took 
place,  it  was  exceptional  and  attracted  less  notice  than  it 
would  have  done  under  the  Restoration.  Nevertheless, 
women  talked  freely  among  themselves  of  a  subject  in  which 
both  lyric  and  dramatic  poetry  then  reveled.  The  lover, 


30  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

that  being  so  rare  and  so  bewitching,  was  a  favorite  theme. 
The  few  intrigues  which  came  to  light  supplied  matter  for 
such  conversation,  which,  then  as  ever,  was  confined  to 
women  of  unexceptionable  life.  The  repugnance  to  this  sort 
of  talk  shown  by  women  who  have  a  stolen  joy  to  conceal  is 
indeed  a  noteworthy  fact.  They  are  the  prudes  of  society, 
cautious,  .and  even  bashful;  their  attitude  is  one  of  per- 
petual appeal  for  silence  or  pardon.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  a  woman  takes  pleasure  in  hearing  of  such  disasters 
and  is  curious  about  the  temptations  which  lead  to  them, 
you  may  be  sure  she  is  halting  at  the  cross-roads,  uncertain 
and  hesitating. 

During  this  winter  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  caught 
the  distant  roll  of  society's  thunder,  and  the  rising  storm 
whistled  about  her  ears.  Her  so-called  friends,  whose  repu- 
tations were  under  the  safeguard  of  exalted  rank  and  posi- 
tion, drew  many  sketches  of  the  irresistible  gallant  for  her 
benefit,  and  dropped  into  her  heart  burning  words  about 
love,  the  one  solution  of  life  for  women,  the  master  passion, 
according  to  Mme.  de  Stael,  who  did  not  speak  without  ex- 
perience. When  the  Countess,  in  a  friendly  conclave,  naively 
asked  why  a  lover  "was  so  different  from  a  husband,  not  one 
of  these  women  failed  to  reply  in  such  a  way  as  to  pique 
her  curiosity,  haunt  her  imagination,  touch  her  heart,  and  in- 
terest her  mind.  They  burned  to  see  Vandenesse  in  trouble. 

"With  one's  husband,  dear,  one  simply  rubs  along;  with 
a  lover  it's  life,"  said  her  sister-in-law,  the  Marquise  de  Van- 
denesse. 

"Marriage,  my  child,  is  our  purgatory,  love  is  paradise," 
said  Lady  Dudley. 

"Don't  believe  her,"  cried  Mile,  des  Touches,  "it's  hell !" 

"Yes,  but  a  hell  with  love  in  it,"  observed  the  Marquise 
de  Rochefide.  "There  may  be  more  satisfaction  in  suffering 
than  in  an  easy  life.  Look  at  the  martyrs !" 

"Little  simpleton,"  said  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  "in  mar- 
riage, we  live,  so  to  speak,  our  own  life;  love  is  living  in  an- 
other." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  31 

"In  short,  a  lover  is  the  forbidden  fruit,  and  that's  enough 
for  me !"  laughingly  spoke  the  pretty  Moi'na  de  Saint- 
Heren. 

When  there  were  no  diplomatic  at  homes,  or  balls  given 
by  wealthy  foreigners,  such  as  Lady  Dudley  or  the  Princesse 
de  Galathionne,  the  Countess  went  almost  every  evening  after 
the  opera  to  one  of  the  few  aristocratic  drawing-rooms  still 
open — whether  that  of  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  Mme.  de 
Listomere,  Mile,  des  Touches,  the  Comtesse  de  Montcornet, 
or  the  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu.  Never  did  she  leave  these 
gatherings  without  some  seeds  of  evil  scattered  in  her  soul. 
She  heard  talk  about  "completing  her  life,"  an  expression 
much  in  vogue  then,  or  about  being  "understood,"  another 
word  to  which  women  attach  marvelous  meanings.  She 
would  return  home  uneasy,  pensive,  dreamy,  and  curious.' 
Her  life  seemed  somehow  impoverished,  but  she  had  not  yet 
gone  so  far  as  to  feel  it  entirely  barren. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  MAN  OF  NOTE 

THE  most  lively,  but  also  the  most  mixed,  company  to  be 
found  in  any  of  the  houses  where  Mme.  de  Vandenesse 
visited,  was  decidedly  that  which  met  at  the  Comtesse  de 
Montcornet's.  She  was  a  charming  little  woman,  who  opened 
her  doors  to  distinguished  artists,  commercial  princes,  and 
celebrated  literary  men ;  but  the  tests  to  which  she  submitted 
them  before  admission  were  so  rigorous  that  the  most  ex- 
clusive need  not  fear  rubbing  up  against  persons  of  an  in- 
ferior grade ;  the  most  unapproachable  were  safe  from  pollu- 
tion. During  the  winter,  society  (which  never  loses  its  rights, 
and  at  all  costs  will  be  amused)  began  to  rally  again, 
and  a  few  drawing-rooms — including  those  of  Mmes. 
d'Espard  and  de  Listomere,  of  Mile,  des  Touches,  and  of 


32  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

the  Duchesse  de  Grandlieu — had  picked  up  recruits  from 
among  the  latest  celebrities  in  art,  science,  literature,  and 
politics.  At  a  concert  given  by  the  Comtesse  de  Mont- 
cornet,  toward  the  end  of  the  winter,  Raoul  Nathan,  a  well- 
known  name  in  literature  and  politics,  made  his  entry,  in- 
troduced by  fimile  Blondet,  a  very  brilliant  but  also  very  in- 
dolent writer.  Blondet  too  was  a  celebrity,  but  only  among 
the  initiated  few;  much  made  of  by  the  critics,  he  was  un- 
known to  the  general  public.  Blondet  was  perfectly  aware 
of  this,  and  in  general  was  a  man  of  few  illusions.  In  regard 
to  fame,  he  said,  among  other  disparaging  remarks,  that  it 
was  a  poison  best  taken  in  small  doses. 

Raoul  Nathan  had  a  long  struggle  before  emerging  to  the 
surface.  Having  reached  it,  he  had  at  once  made  capital 
"out  of  that  sudden  craze  for  external  form  then  distinguish- 
ing certain  exquisites,  who  swore  by  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
were  humorously  known  as  "young  France."  He  adopted 
the  eccentricities  of  genius,  and  enrolled  himself  among  these 
worshipers  of  art,  whose  intentions  at  least  we  cannot  but 
admire,  since  nothing  is  more  absurd  than  the  dress  of  a 
Frenchman  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  courage  was 
needed  to  change  it.  Raoul,  to  do  him  justice,  has  some- 
thing unusual  and  fantastic  in  his  person,  which  seems  to 
demand  a  setting.  His  enemies  or  his  friends — there  is 
little  to  choose  between  them — are  agreed  that  nothing  in  the 
world  so  well  matches  the  inner  Nathan  as  the  outer.  He 
would  probably  look  even  more  remarkable  if  left  to  nature 
than  he  is  when  touched  by  art.  His  worn  and  wasted 
features  suggest. a  wrestling  with  spirits,  good  or  evil.  His 
face  has  some  likeness  to  that  which  German  painters  give 
to  the  dead  Christ,  and  bears  innumerable  traces  of  a  con- 
stant struggle  between  weak  human  nature  and  the  powers 
on  high.  But  the  deep  hollows  of  his  cheeks,  the  knobs  on 
his  craggy  and  furrowed  skull,  the  cavities  round  his  eyes 
and  temples,  point  to  nothing  weak  in  the  constitution.  There 
is  remarkable  solidity  about  the  tough  tissues  and  prominent 
bones ;  and  though  the  skin,  tanned  by  excess,  sticks  to  them 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  33 

as  though  parched  by  same  fire  within,  it  none  the  less  covers 
a  massive  framework.  He  is  tall  and  thin.  His  long  hair, 
which  always  needs  brushing,  aims  at  effect.  He  is  a 
Byron,  badly  groomed  and  badly  put  together,  with  legs  like 
a  heron's,  congested  knees,  an  exaggeratedly  small  waist,  a 
hand  with  muscles  of  whip-cord,  the  grip  of  a  crab's  claw, 
and  lean,  nervous  fingers. 

Raoul's  eyes  are  Napoleonic,  blue  and  soul-piercing;  his 
nose  is  sensitive  and  finely  chiseled,  his  mouth  charming  and 
adorned  with  teeth  white  enough  to  excite  a  woman's  envy. 
There  is  life  and  fire  in  the  head,  genius  on  the  brow.  Raoul 
belongs  to  the  small  number  of  men  who  would  not  pass  un- 
noticed in  the  street,  and  who,  in  a  drawing-room,  at  once 
form  a  centre  of  light,  drawing  all  eyes.  He  attracts  atten- 
tion by  his  neglige,  if  one  may  borrow  from  Moliere  the  word 
used  in  filiante  to  describe  personal  slovenliness.  His  clothes 
look  as  though  they  had  been  pulled  about,  frayed,  and 
crumpled  on  purpose  to  harmonize  with  his  countenance. 
He  habitually  thrusts  one  hand  into  his  open  waistcoat  in 
the  pose  which  Girodet's  portrait  of  Chateaubriand  has  made 
famous,  but  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  copying  Chateau- 
briand (he  would  disdain  to  copy  any  one)  as  to  take  the  stiff- 
ness out  of  his  shirt  front.  His  tie  becomes  all  in  a  moment  a 
mere  wisp,  from  a  trick  he  has  of  throwing  back  his  head  with 
a  sudden  convulsive  movement,  like  that  of  a  race-horse 
champing  its  bit  and  tossing  its  head  in  the  effort  to  break 
loose  from  bridle  and  curb.  His  long,  pointed  beard  is  very 
different  from  that  of  the  dandy,  combed,  brushed,  scented, 
sleek,  shaped  like  a  fan  or  cut  into  a  peak;  Nathan's  is  left 
entirely  to  nature.  His  hair,  caught  in  by  his  coat-collar 
and  tie,  and  lying  thick  upon  his  shoulders,  leaves  a  grease 
spot  wherever  it  rests.  His  dry,  stringy  hands  are  innocent 
of  nail-brush  or  the  luxury  of  a  lemon.  There  are  even 
journalists  who  declare  that  only  on  rare  occasions  is  their 
grimy  skin  laved  in  baptismal  waters. 

In  a  word,  this  awe-inspiring  Raoul  is  a  caricature.  He 
moves  in  a  jerky  way,  as  though  propelled  by  some  faulty 


34  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

machinery;  and  when  walking  the  boulevards  of  Paris  he 
offends  all  sense  of  order  by  impetuous  zigzags  and  unex- 
pected halts,  which  bring  him  into  collision  with  peaceful 
citizens  as  they  stroll  along.  His  conversation,  full  of  caustic 
humor  and  stinging  epigrams,  imitates  the  gait  of  his  body; 
of  a  sudden  it  will  drop  the  tone  of  fury  to  become,  for  no 
apparent  reason,  gracious,  dreamy,  soothing,  and  gentle; 
then  come  unaccountable  pauses  or  mental  somersaults, 
which  at  times  grow  fatiguing.  In  society  he  does  not  con- 
ceal an  unblushing  awkwardness,  a  scorn  of  convention,  and 
an  attitude  of  criticism  towards  things  usually  held  in  re- 
spect there,  which  make  him  objectionable  to  plain  people, 
as  well  as  to  those  who  strive  to  keep  up  the  traditions  of 
old-world  courtliness.  Yet,  after  all,  he  is  an  oddity,  like  a 
Chinese  image,  and  women  have  a  weakness  for  such  things. 
Besides,  with  women  he  often  puts  on  an  air  of  elaborate 
suavity,  and  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  making  them  forget 
his  grotesque  exterior,  and  in  vanquishing  their  antipathy. 
This  is  a  salve  to  his  vanity,  his  self-esteem,  and  his  pride. 

"Why  do  you  behave  so  ?"  said  the  Marquise  de  Vandenesse 
to  him  one  day. 

"Are  not  pearls  found  in  oyster  shells?"  was  the  pompous 
reply. 

To  some  one  else,  who  put'  a  similar  question,  he  an- 
swered : 

"If  I  made  myself  agreeable  to  every  one,  what  should  I 
have  left  for  her  whom  I  design  to  honor  supremely?" 

Eaoul  Nathan  carries  into  his  intellectual  life  the  irregU' 
larity  which  he  has  made  his  badge.  Nor  is  the  device  mis- 
leading: like  poor  girls,  who  go  out  as  maids-of -all- work  in 
humble  homes,  he  can  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  He  began 
with  serious  criticism,  but  soon  became  convinced  that  this 
was  a  losing  trade.  His  articles,  he  said,  cost  as  much  as 
books.  The  profits  of  the  theatre  attracted  him,  but,  in- 
capable of  the  slow,  sustained  labor  involved  in  putting  any- 
thing on  the  boards,  he  was  driven  to  ally  himself  with  du 
Bruel,  who  worked  up  his  ideas  and  converted  them  into 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  35 

l?ght  paying  pieces  with  plenty  of  humor,  and  composed  in 
view  of  some  particular  actor  or  actress.  Between  them  they 
unearthed  Florine,  a  popular  actress. 

Ashamed,  however,  of  this  Siamese-like  union,  Nathan, 
unaided,  brought  out  at  the  Theatre  Frangais  a  great  drama, 
which  fell  with  all  the  honors  of  war  amidst  salvoes  from  the 
artillery  of  the  press.  In  his  youth  he  had  already  tried 
the  theatre  which  represents  the  fine  traditions  of  the  French 
drama  with  a  splendid  romantic  play  in  the  style  of  Pinto, 
and  this  at  a  time  when  classicism  held  undisputed  sway. 
The  result  was  that  the  Odeon  became  for  three  nights  the 
scene  of  such  disorder  that  the  piece  had  to  be  stopped. 
The  second  play,  no  less  than  the  first,  seemed  to  many  people 
a  masterpiece,  and  it  won  for  him,  though  only  within  the 
select  world  of  judges  and  connoisseurs,  a  far  higher  reputa- 
tion than  the  light  remunerative  pieces  at  which  he  worked 
with  others. 

"One  more  such  failure,"  said  fimile  Blondet,  "and  you 
will  be  immortal." 

But  Nathan,  instead  of  sticking  to  this  arduous  path,  was 
driven  by  stress  of  poverty  to  fall  back  upon  more  profitable 
work,  such  as  the  production  of  spectacular  pieces  or  of  an 
eighteenth-century  powder  and  patches  vaudeville,  and  the 
adaptation  of  popular  novels  to  the  stage.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  still  counted  as  a  man  of  great  ability,  whose  last  word 
had  not  yet  been  heard.  He  made  an  excursion  also  into 
pure  literature  and  published  three  novels,  not  reckoning 
those  which  he  kept  going  in  the  press,  like  fishes  in  an 
aquarium.  As  often  happens,  when  a  writer  has  stuff  in  him 
for  only  one  work,  the  first  of  these  three  was  a  brilliant 
success.  Its  author  rashly  put  it  at  once  in  the  front  rank 
of  his  works  as  an  artistic  creation,  and  lost  no  opportunity 
of  getting  it  puffed  as  the  "finest  book  of  the  period,"  the 
"novel  of  the  century." 

Yet  he  complained  loudly  of  the  exigencies  of  art,  and 
did  as  much  as  any  man  towards  having  it  accepted  as  the 
one  standard  for  all  kinds  of  creative  work — painting, 


36  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

sculpture,  literature,  architecture.  He  had  begun  by  per- 
petrating a  book  of  verse,  which  won  him  a  place  in  the 
pleiad  of  poets  of  the  day,  and  which  contained  one  obscure 
poem  that  was  greatly  admired.  Compelled  by  straitened 
circumstances  to  go  on  producing,  he  turned  from  the 
theatre  to  the  press,  and  from  the  press  back  to  the  theatre, 
breaking  up  and  scattering  his  powers,,  but  with  unshaken 
confidence  in  his  inspiration.  He  did  not  suffer,  therefore, 
from  lack  of  a  publisher  for  his  fame,  differing  in  this  from 
certain  celebrities,  whose  nickering  flame  is  kept  from  ex- 
tinction by  the  titles  of  books  still  in  the  future,  for  which 
a  public  will  be  a  more  pressing  necessity  than  a  new  edi- 
tion. 

Nathan  kept  near  to  being  a  genius,  and,  had  destiny 
crowned  his  ambition  by  marching  him  to  the  scaffold,  he 
would  have  been  justified  in  striking  his  forehead  after 
Andre  de  Chenier.  The  sudden  accession  to  power  of  a 
dozen  authors,  professors,  metaphysicians,  and  historians 
fired  him  with  emulation,  and  he  regretted  not  having  de- 
voted his  pen  to  politics  rather  than  to  literature.  He  be- 
lieved himself  superior  to  these  upstarts,  who  had  foisted 
themselves  on  to  the  party-machine  during  the  troubles  of 
1830-3  and  whose  fortune  now  filled  him  with  consuming 
envy.  He  belonged  to  the  type  of  man  who  covets  everything 
and  looks  on  all  success  as  a  fraud  on  himself,  who  is  always 
stumbling  on  some  luminous  track  but  settles  down  nowhere, 
drawing  all  the  while  on  the  tolerance  of  his  neighbors.  At 
this  moment  he  was  traveling  from  Saint-Simonism  to  Ee- 
publicanism,  which  might  serve,  perhaps,  as  a  stage  to  Min- 
isterialism.  His  eye  swept  every  corner  for  some  bone  to 
pick,  some  safe  shelter  whence  he  might  bark  beyond  the 
reach  of  kicks,  and  make  himself  a  terror  to  the  passers-by. 
He  had,  however,  the  mortification  of  finding  himself  not 
taken  seriously  by  the  great  de  Marsay,  then  at  the  head  of 
affairs,  who  had  a  low  opinion  of  authors  as  lacking  in  what 
Eichelieu  called  the  logical  spirit,  or  rather  in  coherence 
of  ideas.  Besides,  no  minister  could  have  failed  to  reckon 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  37 

on  Raoul's  constant  pecuniary  difficulties  which,  sooner  or 
later,  would  drive  him  into  the  position  of  accepting  rather 
than  imposing  conditions. 

Eaoul's  real  and  studiously  suppressed  character  accords 
with  that  which  he  shows  to  the  public.  He  is  carried  away 
by  his  own  acting,  declaims  with  great  eloquence,  and  could 
not  be  more  self-centered  were  he,  like  Louis  XIV.,  the  State 
in  person.  None  knows  better  how  to  play  at  sentiment 
or  to  deck  himself  out  in  a  shoddy  greatness.  The  grace  of 
moral  beauty  and  the  language  of  self-respect  are  at  hi? 
command,  he  is  a  very  Alceste  in  pose,  while  acting  like 
Philinte.  His  selfishness  ambles  along  under  cover  of  this 
painted  cardboard,  and  not  seldom  attains  the  end  he  has  in 
view.  Excessively  idle,  he  never  works  except  under  the  prick 
of  necessity.  Continuous  labor  applied  to  the  construction 
of  a  lasting  fabric  is  beyond  his  conception;  but  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  rage,  the  result  of  wounded  vanity,  or  in  some  crisis 
precipitated  by  his  creditors,  he  will  leap  the  Eurotas  and 
perform  miracles  of  mental  f orestalment ;  after  which,  worn 
out  and  amazed  at  his  own  fertility,  he  falls  back  into  the 
enervating  dissipations  of  Paris  life.  Does  necessity  once 
more  threaten,  he  has  no  strength  to  meet  it;  he  sinks  a 
step  and  traffics  with  his  honor.  Impelled  by  a  false  idea 
of  his  talents  and  his  future,  founded  on  the  rapid  rise  of  one 
of  his  old  comrades  (one  of  the  few  cases  of  administrative 
ability  brought  to  light  by  the  Revolution  of  July),  he  tries 
to  regain  his  footing  by  taking  liberties  with  his  friends, 
which  are  nothing  short  of  a  moral  outrage,  though  they  re- 
main buried  among  the  skeletons  of  private  life,  without  a 
word  of  comment  or  blame. 

His  heart,  devoid  of  nicety,  his  shameless  hand,  hail-fellow- 
well-met  with  every  vice,  every  degradation,  every  treachery, 
every  party,  have  placed  him  as  much  beyond  reach  of  at- 
tack as  a  constitutional  king.  The  peccadillo,  which  would 
raise  hue  and  cry  after  a  man  of  high  character,  counts  for 
nothing  in  him;  while  conduct  bordering  on  grossness  is 
barely  noticed.  In  making  his  excuses  people  find  their  own. 


38  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

The  very  man  who  would  fain  despise  him  shakes  him  by 
the  hand,  fearing  to  need  his  help.  So  numerous  are  his 
friends  that  he  would  prefer  enemies.  This  surface  good- 
nature which  captivates  a  new  acquaintance  and  is  no  bar 
to  treachery,  which  knows  no  scruple  and  is  never  at  fault 
for  an  excuse,  which  makes  an  outcry  at  the  wound  which 
it  condones,  is  one  of  the  most  distinctive  features  of  the 
journalist.  This  camaraderie  (the  word  is  a  stroke  of  genius) 
corrodes  the  noblest  minds ;  it  eats  into  their  pride  'like  rust, 
kills  the  germ  of  great  deeds,  and  lends  a  sanction  to  moral 
cowardice.  There  are  men  who,  by  exacting  this  general 
slackness  of  conscience,  get  themselves  absolved  for  playing 
the  traitor  and  the  turncoat.  Thus  it  is  that  the  most  en- 
lightened portion  of  the  nation  becomes  the  least  worthy  of 
respect. 

From  the  literary  point  of  view,  Nathan  is  deficient  in 
style  and  information.  Like  most  young  aspirants  in  litera- 
ture, he  gives  out  to-day  what  he  learned  yesterday.  He 
has  neither  the  time  nor  the  patience  to  make  an  author.  He 
does  not  use  his  own  eyes,  but  can  pick  up  from  others, 
and,  while  he  fails  in  producing  a  vigorously  constructed  plot, 
he  sometimes  covers  this  defect  by  the  fervor  he  throws 
into  it.  He  "went  in"  for  passion,  to  use  a  slang  word, 
because  there  is  no  limit  to  the  variety  of  modes  in  which 
passion  may  express  itself,  while  the  task  of  genius  is  to  sift 
out  from  these  various  expressions  the  element  in  each  which 
will  appeal  to  every  one  as  natural.  His  heroes  do  not 
stir  the  imagination;  they  are  magnified  individuals,  ex- 
citing only  a  passing  sympathy;  they  have  no  connection 
with  the  wider  interests  of  life,  and  therefore  stand  for 
nothing  but  themselves.  Yet  the  author  saves  himself  by 
means  of  a  ready  wit  and  of  those  lucky  hits  which  billiard 
players  call  "flukes."  He  is  the  best  man  for  a  flying  shot 
at  the  ideas  which  swoop  down  upon  Paris,  or  which  Paris 
starts.  His  teeming  brain  is  not  his  own,  it  belongs  to  the 
period.  He  lives  upon  the  event  of  the  day,  and,  in  order  to 
get  all  he  can  from  it,  exaggerates  its  bearing.  In  short,  we 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  39 

miss  the  accent  of  truth.,  his  words  ring  false ;  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  juggler  in  him,  as  Count  Felix  said.  One  feels 
that  his  pen  has  dipped  in  the  ink  of  an  actress'  dressing- 
room. 

In  Nathan  we  find  an  image  of  the  literary  youth  of  the 
day,  with  their  sham  greatness  and  real  poverty;  he  repre- 
sents their  irregular  charm  and  their  terrible  falls,  their  life 
of  seething  cataracts,  sudden  reverses,  and  unlooked-for  tri- 
umphs. He  is  a  true  child  of  this  jealousy-ridden  age,  in 
which  a  thousand  personal  rivalries,  cloaking  themselves 
under  the  name  of  schools,  make  profit  out  of  their  failures 
by  feeding  fat  with  them  a  hydra-headed  anarchy;  an  age 
which  expects  fortune  without  work,  glory  without  talent, 
and  success  without  effort,  but  which,  after  many  a  revolt 
and  skirmish,  is  at  last  brought  by  its  vices  to  swell  the  civil 
list,  in  submission  to  the  powers  that  be.  When  so  many 
young  ambitions  start  on  foot  to  meet  at  the  same  goal,  there 
must  be  competing  wills,  frightful  destitution,  and  a  relent- 
less struggle.  In  this  merciless  combat  it  is  the  fiercest  or 
the  adroitest  selfishness  which  wins.  The  lesson  is  not  lost 
on  an  admiring  world;  spite  of  bawling,  as  Moliere  would 
say,  it  acquits  and  follows  suit. 

When,  in  his  capacity  of  opponent  to  the  new  dynasty, 
Eaoul  was  introduced  to  Mme.  de  Montcornet's  drawing- 
room  his  specious  greatness  was  at  its  height.  He  was  recog- 
nized as  the  political  critic  of  the  de  Marsays,  the  Eastignacs, 
and  the  la  Roche-Hugons,  who  constituted  the  party  in 
power.  His  sponsor,  fimile  Blondet,  handicapped  by  his  fatal 
indecision  and  dislike  of  action  where  his  own  affairs  were 
concerned,  stuck  to  his  trade  of  scoffer  and  took  sides  with 
no  party,  while  on  good  terms  with  all.  He  was  the  friend 
of  Raoul,  of  Rastignac,  and  of  Montcornet. 

"You  are  a  political  triangle,"  said  de  Marsay,  with  a 
laugh,  when  he  met  him  at  the  Opera ;  "that  geometrical  form 
is  the  peculiar  property  of  the  deity,  who  can  afford  to  be 
idle;  but  a  man  who  wants  to  get  on  should  adopt  a  curve, 
which  is  the  shortest  road  in  politics." 


40  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

Beheld  from  afar,  Kaoul  Nathan  was  a  resplendent 
meteor.  'The  fashion  of  the  day  justified  his  manner  and 
appearance.  His  pose  as  a  Eepublican  gave  him,  for  the 
moment,  that  puritan  ruggedness  assumed  by  champions 
of  the  popular  cause,  men  whom  Nathan  in  his  heart  derided. 
This  is  not  without  attraction  for  women,  who  love  to  per- 
form prodigies,  such  as  shattering  rocks,  'melting  an  iron 
will.  Raoul's  moral  costume,  therefore,  was  in  keeping  with 
the  external.  He  was  bound  to  be,  and  he  was,  for  this 
Eve,  listless  in  her  paradise  of  the  Rue  du  Rocher,  the  in- 
sidious serpent,  bright  to  the  eye  and  flattering  to  the  ear, 
with  magnetic  gaze  and  graceful  motion,  who  ruined  the 
first  woman. 

Marie,  on  seeing  Raoul,  at  once  felt  that  inward  shock, 
the  violence  of  which  is  almost  terrifying.  This  would-be 
great  man,  by  a  mere  glance,  sent  a  thrill  right  through  to 
her  heart,  causing  a  delicious  flutter  there.  The  regal  mantle 
which  fame  had  for  the  moment  draped  on  Nathan's  shoul- 
ders dazzled  this  simple-minded  woman.  When  tea  came 
Marie  left  the  group  of  chattering  women,  among  whom 
she  had  stood  silent  since  the  appearance  of  this  wonderful 
being — a  fact  which  did  not  escape  her  so-called  friends. 
The  Countess  drew  near  the  ottoman  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  where  Raoul  was  perorating.  She  remained  standing, 
her  arm  linked  in  that  of  Mme.  Octave  de  Camps,  an  ex- 
cellent woman,  who  kept  the  secret  of  the  nervous  quivering 
by  which  Marie  betrayed  her  strong  emotion.  Despite  the 
sweet  magic  distilled  from  the  eye  of  the  woman  who  loves 
or  is  startled  into  self-betrayal,  Raoul  was  just  then  entirely 
occupied  with  a  regular  display  of  fireworks.  He  was  far 
too  busy  letting  off  epigrams  like  rockets,  winding  and  un- 
winding indictments  like  Catherine-wheels,  and  tracing 
blazing  portraits  in  lines  of  fire,  to  notice  the  naive  admira- 
tion of  a  little  Eve,  lost  in  the  crowd  of  women  surrounding 
him.  The  love  of  novelty  which  would  bring  Paris  flocking 
to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  if  a  unicorn  had  been  brought 
there  from  those  famous  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  virgin  yet 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  41 

of  European  tread,  intoxicates  minds  of  a  lower  stamp,  as 
much  as  it  saddens  the  truly  wise.  Eaoul  was  enraptured 
and  far  too  much  engrossed  with  women  in  general  to  pay 
attention  to  one  woman  in  particular. 

"Take  care,  dear,  you  had  better  come  away,"  her  fair 
companion,  sweetest  of  women,  whispered  to  Marie. 

The  Countess  turned  to  her  husband  and,  with  one  of 
those  speaking  glances  which  husbands  are  sometimes  slow 
in  interpreting,  begged  for  his  arm.  Felix  led  her  away. 

"Well,  you  are  in  luck,  my  good  friend,"  said  Mme. 
d'Espard  in  Raoul's  ear.  "You've  done  execution  in  more 
than  one  quarter  to-night,  and,  best  of  all,  with  that  charm- 
ing Countess  who  has  just  left  us  so  abruptly." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  Marquise  d'Espard  meant  ?"  asked 
Raoul  of  Blondet,  repeating  the  great  lady's  remark,  when 
almost  all  the  other  guests  had  departed,  between  one  and 
two  in  the  morning. 

"Why,  yes,  I  have  just  heard  that  the  Comtesse  de  Van- 
denesse  has  fallen  wildly  in  love  with  you.  Lucky  dog !" 

"I  did  not  see  her,"  said  Raoul. 

"Ah !  but  you  will  see  her,  you  rascal,"  said  fimile  Blondet, 
laughing.  "Lady  Dudley  has  invited  you  to  her  great  ball 
with  the  very  purpose  of  bringing  about  a  meeting." 

Raoul  and  Blondet  left  together,  and  joining  Rastignac, 
who  offered  them  a  place  in  his  carriage,  the  three  made 
merry  over  this  conjunction  of  an  eclectic  Under-Secretary 
of  State  with  a  fierce  Republican  and  a  political  sceptic. 

"Suppose  we  sup  at  the  expense  of  law  and  order?"  said 
Blondet,  who  had  a  fancy  for  reviving  the  old-fashioned 
supper. 

Rastignac  took  them  to  Very's,  and  dismissed  his  carriage ; 
the  three  then  sat  down  to  table  and  set  themselves  to  pull 
to  pieces  their  contemporaries  amidst  Rabelaisian  laughter. 
During  the  course  of  supper  Rastignac  and  Blondet  urged 
their  counterfeit  opponent  not  to  neglect  the  magnificent  op- 
portunity thrown  in  his  way.  The  story  of  Marie  de  Van- 
denesse  was  caricatured  by  these  two  profligates,  who  applied 
the  scalpel  of  epigram  and  the  keen  edge  of  mockery  to  that 


42  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

transparent  childhood,*  that  happy  marriage.  Blondet  con- 
gratulated Eaoul  on  having  found  a  woman  who  so  far 
had  been  guilty  only  of  execrable  red-chalk  drawings  snid 
feeble  water-color  landscapes,  of  embroider'ng  slippers  for 
her  husband,  and  performing  sonatas  with  a  most  lady-like 
absence  of  passion ;  a  woman  who  had  been  tied  for  eighteen 
years  to  her  mother's  apron-strings,  pickled  in  devotion, 
trained  by  Vandenesse,  and  cooked  to  a  turn  by  marriage 
for  the  palate  of  love.  At  the  third  bottle  of  champagne 
Raoul  Nathan  became  more  expansive  than  he  had  ever  shown 
himself  before. 

"My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "you  know  my  relations  with 
Florine,  you  know  my  life,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
me  confess  that  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  color  of  a  Countess' 
love.  It  has  often  been  a  humiliating  thought  to  me  that 
only  in  poetry  could  I  find  a  Beatrice,  a  Laura !  A  pure 
and  noble  woman  is  like  a  spotless  conscience,  she  raises  us 
in  our  own  estimation.  Elsewhere  we  may  be  soiled,  with 
her  we  keep  our  honor,  pride,  and  purity.  Elsewhere  life 
is  a  wild  frenzy,  with  her  we  breathe  the  peace,  the  freshness, 
the  bloom  of  the  oasis." 

"Come,  come,  my  good  soul,"  said  Eastignac,  "shift  the 
prayer  of  Moses  on  to  the  high  notes,  as  Paganini  does." 

Raoul  sat  speechless  with  fixed  and  besotted  eyes.  At  last 
he  opened  his  mouth. 

"This  beast  of  a  'prentice  minister  does  not  understand 
me!" 

Thus,  whilst  the  poor  Eve  of  the  Rue  du  Rocher  went  to 
bed,  swathed  in  shame,  terrified  at  the  delight  which  had 
filled  her  while  listening  to  this  poetic  pretender,  hovering 
between  the  stern  voice  of  gratitude  to  Vandenesse  and  the 
flattering  tongue  of  the  serpent,  these  three  shameless  spirits 
trampled  on  the  tender  white  blossoms  of  her  opening  love. 
Ah !  if  women  knew  how  cynical  those  men  can  be  behind 
their  backs,  who  show  themselves  all  meekness  and  cajolery 
when  by  their  side !  if  they  knew  how  they  mock  their  idols ! 
Fresh,  lovely,  and  timid  creature,  whose  charms  lie  at  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  43 

mercy  of  some  graceless  buffoon !  And  yet  she  triumphs ! 
The  more  the  veils  are  rent,  the  clearer  her  beauty  shines. 

Marie  at  this  moment  was  comparing  Eaoul  and  Felix, 
all-ignorant  of  the  danger  to  her  heart  in  such  a  process. 
No  better  contrast  could  be  found  to  the  robust  and  uncon- 
ventional Eaoul  than  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  with  his  clothes 
fitting  like  a  glove,  the  finish  of  a  fine  lady  in  his  person, 
his  charming  natural  disinvoltura,  combined  with  a  touch  of 
English  refinement,  picked  up  from  Lady  Dudley.  A  con- 
trast like  this  pleases  the  fancy  of  a  woman,  ever  ready  to 
fly  from  one  extreme  to  another.  The  Countess  was  too  well- 
principled  and  pious  not  to  forbid  her  thoughts  dwelling 
on  Raoul,  and  next  day,  in  the  heart  of  her  paradise,  she 
took  herself  to  task  for  base  ingratitude. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Eaoul  Nathan?"  she  asked  her 
husband  during  lunch.  . 

"He  is  a  charlatan,"  replied  the  Count ;  "one  of  those  vol- 
canoes which  a  sprinkling  of  gold-dust  will  keep  tranquil. 
The  Comtesse  de  Montcoraet  ought  not  to  have  had  him  at 
her  house." 

This  reply  was  the  more  galling  to  Marie  because  Felix, 
who  knew  the  literary  world  well,  supported  his  verdict  with 
proofs  drawn  from  the  life  of  Eaoul — a  life  of  shifts,  in 
which  Florine,  a  well-known  actress,  played  a  large  part. 

"Granting  the  man  has  genius,"  he  concluded,  "he  is  with- 
out the  patience  and  persistency  which  make  genius  a  thing 
apart  and  sacred.  He  tries  to  impress  people  by  assuming  a 
position  which  he  cannot  live  up  to.  That  is  not  the  be- 
havior of  really  able  men  and  students ;  if  they  are  honorable 
men  they  stick  to  their  own  line,  and  don't  try  to  hide  their 
rags  under  frippery." 

A  woman's  thought  has  marvelous  elasticity;  it  may  sink 
under  a  blow,  to  all  appearance  crushed,  but  in  a  given  time 
it  is  up  again,  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"Felix  must  be  right,"  was  the  first  thought  of  the 
Countess. 

Three  days  later,  however,  her  mind  traveled  back  to  the 


44  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

tempter,  allured  by  that  sweet  yet  ruthless  emotion  which  it 
was  the  mistake  of  Vandenesse  not  to  have  aroused.  The 
Count  and  Countess  went  to  Lady  Dudley's  great  ball,  where 
de  Marsay  made  his  last  appearance  in  society.  Two  months 
later  he  died,  leaving  the  reputation  of  a  statesman  so  pro- 
found that,  as  Blondet  said,  he  was  unfathomable.  Here 
Vandenesse  and  his  wife  again  met  Kaoul  Nathan,  amid  a 
concourse  of  people  made  remarkable  by  the  number  of  actors 
in  the  political  drama  whom,  to  their  mutual  surprise,  it 
brought  together. 

It  was  one  of  the  chief  social  functions  in  the  great  world. 
The  reception-rooms  offered  a  magic  picture  to  the  eye. 
Flowers,  diamonds,  shining  hair,  the  plunder  of  countless 
jewel-cases,  every  art  of  the  toilet — all  contributed  to  the  ef- 
fect. Tbe  room  might  be  compared  to  one  of  those  show 
hothouses  where  wealthy  amateurs  collect  the  most  marvelous 
varieties.  There  was  the  same  brilliancy,  the  same  delicacy 
of  texture.  It  seemed  as  though  the  art  of  man  would  com- 
pete also  with  the  animal  world.  On  all  sides  fluttered  gauze, 
white  or  painted  like  the  wings  of  prettiest  dragon-fly, 
crepe,  lace,  blonde,  tulle,  pucked,  puffed,  or  notched,  vying 
in  eccentricity  of  form  with  the  freaks  of  nature  in  the  in- 
sect tribe.  There  were  spider's  threads  in  gold  or  silver, 
clouds  of  silk,  flowers  which  some  fairy  might  have  woven 
or  imprisoned  spirit  breathed  into  life;  feathers,  whose  rich 
tints  told  of  a  tropical  sun,  drooping  willow-like  over  haughty 
heads,  ropes  of  pearls,  drapery  in  broad  folds,  ribbed,  or 
slashed,  as  though  the  genius  of  arabesque  had  presided  over 
French  millinery. 

This  splendor  harmonized  with  the  beauties  gathered  to- 
gether as  though  to  form  a  "keepsake."  The  eye  roamed 
over  a  wealth  of  fair  shoulders  in  every  tone  of  white  that 
man  could  conceive — some  amber-tinted,  others  glistening 
like  some  glazed  surface  or  glossy  as  satin,  others,  again,  of 
a  rich  lustreless  color  which  the  brush  of  Rubens  might  have 
mixed.  Then  the  eyes,  sparkling  like  onyx  stones  or  tur- 
quoises, with  their  dark  velvet  edging  or  fair  fringes;  and 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  45 

profiles  of  every  contour,  recalling  the  noblest  types  of  differ- 
ent lands.  There  were  brows  lofty  with  pride;  rounded 
brows,  index  of  thought  within;  level  brows,  the  seat  of  an 
indomitable  will.  Lastly — most  bewitching  of  all  in  a  scene 
of  such  studied  splendor — necks  and  bosoms  in  the  rich 
voluptuous  folds  adored  by  George  IV.,  or  with  the  more 
delicate  modeling  which  found  favor  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury and  at  the  Court  of  Louis  XV.;  but  all,  whatever  the 
type,  frankly  exhibited,  either  without  drapery  or  through  the 
dainty  plaited  tuckers  of  Kaphael's  portraits,  supreme  tri- 
umph of  his  laborious  pupils.  Prettiest  of  feet,  itching  for 
the  dance,  figures  yielding  softly  to  the  embrace  of  the  waltz, 
roused  the  most  apathetic  to  attention ;  murmurings  of  gentle 
voices,  rustling  dresses,  whispering  partners,  vibrations  of 
the  dance,  made  a  fantastic  burden  to  the  music. 

A  fairy's  wand  might  have  called  forth  this  witchery,  be- 
wildering to  the  senses,  the  harmony  of  scents,  the  rainbow 
tints  flashing  in  the  crystal  chandeliers,  the  blaze  of  the 
candles,  the  mirrors  which  repeated  the  scene  on  every  side. 
The  groups  of  lovely  women  in  lovely  attire  stood  out  against 
a  dark  background  of  men,  where  might  be  observed  the  deli- 
cate, regular  features  of  the  aristocracy,  the  tawny  mous- 
tache of  the  sedate  Englishman,  the  gay,  smiling  countenance 
of  the  French  aoble.  Every  European  order  glittered  in  the 
room,  some  hanging  from  a  collar  on  the  breast,  others 
dangling  by  the  side. 

To  a  watchful  observer  the  scene  presented  more  than  this 
gaily  decorated  surface.  It  had  a  soul;  it  lived,  it  thought, 
it  felt,  it  found  expression  in  the  hidden  passions  which  now 
and  again  forced  their  way  to  the  surface.  Now  it  would 
be  an  interchange  of  malicious  glances ;  now  some  fair  young 
girl,  carried  away  by  excitement  and  novelty,  would  betray 
a  touch  of  passion ;  jealous  women  talked  scandal  behind  their 
fans  and  paid  each  other  extravagant  compliments.  Society, 
decked  out,  curled,  and  perfumed,  abandoned  itself  to  that 
frenzy  of  the  fete  which  goes  to  the  head  like  the  fumes  of 
wine.  From  every  brow,  as  from  every  heart,  seemed  to 


46  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

emanate  sensations  and  thoughts,  which,  forming  together 
one  potent  influence,  inflamed  the  most  cold-blooded. 

It  was  the  most  exciting  moment  of  this  entrancing  even- 
ing. In  a  corner  of  the  gilded  drawing-room,  where  a  few 
bankers,  ambassadors,  and  retired  ministers,  together  with 
that  old  reprobate,  Lord  Dudley  (an  unexpected  arrival), 
were  seated  at  play,  Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  found  herself 
unable  to  resist  the  impulse  to  enter  into  conversation  with 
Nathan.  She,  too,  may  have  been  yielding  to  that  ballroom 
intoxication  which  has  wrung  many  a  confession  from  the 
lips  of  the  most  coy. 

The  sight  of  this  splendid  pageant  of  a  world  to  which 
he  was  still  a  stranger  stung  Nathan  to  the  heart  with  re- 
doubled ambition.  He  looked  at  Rastignac,  whose  brother, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  had  just  been  made  a  Bishop, 
and  whose  brother-in-law,  Martial  de  la  Roche-Hugon,  held 
office,  while  he  himself  was  an  Under  Secretary  of  State,  and 
about  to  marry,  as  rumor  said,  the  only  daughter  of  the 
Baron  de  Nucingen.  He  saw  among  the  members  of  the 
diplomatic  body  an  obscure  writer  who  used  to  translate  for- 
eign newspapers  for  a  journal  that  passed  over  to  the  reigning 
dynasty  after  1830;  he  saw  leader-writers  members  of 
the  Council  and  professors  peers  of  France.  And  he  per- 
ceived, with  bitterness,  that  he  had  taken  the  wrong  road 
in  preaching  the  overthrow  of  an  aristocracy  which  counted 
among  its  ornaments  the  true  nobility  of  fortunate  talent 
and  successful  scheming.  Blondet,  though  still  a  mere  jour- 
nalistic hack,  was  much  made  of  in  society,  and  had  it  yet 
in  his  power  to  strike  the  road  to  fortune  by  means  of  his 
intimacy  with  Mme.  de  Montcornet.  Blondet,  therefore,  with 
all  his  ill-luck,  was  a  striking  example  in  Nathan's  eyes  of  the 
importance  of  having  friends  in  high  places.  In  the  depths 
of  his  heart  he  resolved  upon  following  the  example  of  men 
like  de  Marsay,  Rastignac,  Blondet,  and  Talleyrand,  the 
leader  of  the  sect.  He  would  throw  conviction  to  the  winds, 
paying  allegiance  only  to  accomplished  facts,  which  he  would 
wrest  to  his  own  advantage;  no  system  should  be  to  him 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  4T 

more  than  an  instrument ;  and  on  no  account  would  he  upset 
the  balance  of  a  society  so  admirably  constructed,  so  decora- 
tive, and  so  consonant  with  nature. 

"My  future,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  in  +Hg  bands  of  a  wo- 
man belonging  to  the  great  world." 

Full  of  this  thought,  the  outcome  of  a  frantic  cupidity, 
Nathan  pounced  upon  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  like  a 
hawk  upon  its  prey.  She  was  looking  charming  in  a  head- 
dress of  marabout  feathers,  which  produced  the  delicious 
melting  effect  of  Lawrence's  portraits,  well  suited  to  her 
gentle  character.  The  fervid  rhapsodies  of  the  poet,  crazed 
by  ambition,  carried  the  sweet  creature  quite  off  her  feet. 
Lady  Dudley,  whose  eye  was  everywhere,  secured  the  tete-a- 
tete  by  handing  over  the  Comte  de  Vandenesse  to  Mme.  de 
Manerville.  It  was  the  first  time  the  parted  lovers  had 
spoken  face  to  face  since  their  rupture.  The  woman,  strong 
in  the  habit  of  ascendency,  caught  Felix  in  the  toils  of  a 
coquettish  controversy,  with  plenty  of  blushing  confidences, 
regrets  deftly  cast  like  flowers  at  his  feet,  and  recriminations, 
where  self-defence  was  intended  to  stimulate  reproach. 

Whilst  her  husband's  former  mistress  was  raking  among 
the  ashes  of  dead  joys  to  find  some  spark  of  life,  Mme.  Felix 
de  Vandenesse  experienced  those  violent  heart-throbs  which 
assail  a  woman  with  the  certainty  of  going  astray  and  tread- 
ing forbidden  paths.  These  emotions  are  not  without  fasci- 
nation, and  rouse  many  dormant  faculties.  Now,  as  in  the 
days  of  Bluebeard,  all  women  love  to  use  the  blood-stained 
key,  that  splendid  mythological  symbol  which  is  one  of  Per- 
rault's  glories. 

The  dramatist,  who  knew  his  Shakespeare,  unfolded  the 
tale  of  his  hardships,  described  his  straggle  with  m^n  and 
things,  opened  up  glimpses  of  his  unstable  success,  his  polit- 
ical genius  wasting  in  obscurity,  his  life  unblessed  by  any 
generous  affection.  Without  a  word  directly  to  that  effect, 
he  conveyed  to  this  gracious  lady  the  suggestion  that  she 
might  play  for  him  the  noble  part  of  Eebecca  in  Ivanhoe, 
might  love  and  shelter  him.  Not  a  syllable  overstepped  the 


48  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

pure  regions  of  sentiment.  The  blue  of  the  forget-me-not, 
the  white  of  the  lily,  are  not  more  pure  than  were  his  flowers 
of  rhetoric  and  the  things  signified  by  them ;  the  radiance  of 
a  seraph  lighted  the  brow  of  this  artist,  who  might  yet  utilize 
his  discourse  with  a  publisher.  He  acquitted  himself  well  of 
the  serpent's  part,  and  flashed  before  the  eyes  of  the  Countess 
the  tempting  colors  of  the  fatal  fruit.  Marie  left  the  ball 
consumed  by  remorse,  which  was  akin  to  hope,  thrilled  by 
compliments  flattering  to  her  vanity,  and  agitated  to  the 
remotest  corner  of  her  heart.  Her  very  goodness  was  her 
snare;  she  could  not  resist  her  own  pity  for  the  unfortunate. 

Whether  Mme.  de  Manerville  brought  Vandenesse  to  the 
room  where  his  wife  was  talking  with  Nathan,  whether  he 
came  there  of  his  own  accord,  or  whether  the  conversation  had 
roused  in  him  a  slumbering  pain,  the  fact  remains,  whatever 
the  cause,  that,  when  his  wife  came  to  ask  for  his  arm,  she 
found  him  gloomy  and  abstracted.  The  Countess  was  afraid 
she  had  been  seen.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  Felix  in 
the  carriage,  she  threw  him  a  smile  full  of  meaning,  and 
began: 

"Was  not  that  Mme.  de  Manerville  with  whom  you  were 
talking,  dear?" 

Felix  had  not  yet  got  clear  of  the  thorny  ground,  through 
which  his  wife's  neat  little  attack  marched  him,  when  the 
carriage  stopped  at  their  door.  It  was  the  first  stratagem 
prompted  by  love.  Marie  was  delighted  to  have  thus  got 
the  better  of  a  man  whom  till  then  she  had  considered  so 
superior.  She  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  joy  of  victory 
at  a  critical  moment. 


CHAPTEE  V 

FLORINE 

IN  a  passage  between  the  Eue  Basse-du-Kempart  and  the 
Rue  Neuve-des-Mathurins,  Raoul  had  one  or  two  bare,  cold 
rooms  on  the  third  floor  of  a  thin,  ugly  house.  This  was 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  49 

his  abode  ^or  the  general  public,  for  literary  novices,  cred- 
itors, intruders,  and  the  whole  race  of  bores  who  were  not 
allowed  to  cross  the  threshold  of  private  life.  His  real  home, 
which  was  the  stage  of  his  wider  life  and  public  appearances, 
he  made  with  Florine,  a  second-rate  actress  who,  ten  years 
before,  had  been  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  great  dramatic  artist 
by  the  combined  efforts 'of  Nathan's  friends,  the  newspaper 
critics,  and  a  few  literary  men. 

For  ten  years  Raoul  had  been  so  closely  attached  to  this 
woman,  that  he  spent  half  his  life  in  her  house,  taking 
his  meals  there  whenever  he  had  no  engagements  outside . 
nor  friends  to  entertain.  Florine,  to  a  finished  depravity, 
added  a  very  pretty  wit,  which  constant  intercourse  with 
artists  and  daily  practice  had  developed  and  sharpened.  Wit 
is  generally  supposed  to  be  a  rare  quality  among  actors.  It 
seems  an  easy  inference  that  those  who  spend  their  lives  in 
bringing  the  outside  to  perfection  should  have  little  left  with 
which  to  furnish  the  interior.  But  any  one  who  considers 
the  small  number  of  actors  and  actresses  in  a  century,  com- 
pared with  the  quantity  of  dramatic  authors  and  attractive 
women  produced  by  the  same  population,  will  see  reason  to 
dispute  this  notion.  It  rests,  in  fact,  on  the  common  as- 
sumption that  personal  feeling  must  disappear  in  the  imita- 
tive expression  of  passion,  whereas  the  real  fact  is  that  intel- 
ligence, memory,  and  imagination  are  the  only  powers  em- 
ployed in  such  imitation.  Great  artists  are  those  who,  ac- 
cording to  Napoleon's  definition,  can  intercept  at  will  the 
communication  established  by  nature  between  sensation  and 
thought.  Moliere  and  Talma  loved  more  passionately  in 
their  old  age  than  is  usual  with  ordinary  mortals. 

Florine's  position  forced  her  to  listen  to  the  talk  of  alert 
and  calculating  journalists  and  to  the  prophecies  of  garrulous 
literary  men,  while  keeping  an  eye  on  certain  politicians  who 
used  her  house  as  a  means  of  profiting  by  the  sallies  of  her 
guests.  The  mixture  of  angel  and  demon  which  she  embodied 
made  her  a  fitting  hostess  for  these  profligates,  who  reveled 


50  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

in  her  impudence  and  found  unfailing  amusement  in  the  per- 
versity of  her  mind  and  heart. 

Her  house,  enriched  with  offerings  from  admirers,  dis- 
played in  its  exaggerated  magnificence  an  entire  regardless- 
ness  of  cost.  Women  of  this  type  set  a  purely  arbitrary  value 
on  their  possessions;  in  a  fit  of  temper  they  will  smash  a 
fan  or  a  scent-bottle  worthy  of  a  queen,  and  they  will  be 
inconsolable  if  anything  happens  to  a  ten-franc  basin  which 
their  lap-dogs  drink  out  of.  The  dining-room,  crowded  with 
rare  and  costly  gifts,  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  regal 
and  insolent  profusion  of  the  establishment. 

The  whole  room,  including  the  ceiling,  was  covered  with 
carved  oak,  left  unstained,  and  set  off  with  lines  of  dull  gold 
In  the  panels,  encircled  by  groups  of  children  playing  with 
chimasras,  were  placed  the  lights,  which  illuminated  here  a 
rough  sketch  by  Decamps;  there  a  plaster  angel  holding  a 
basin  of  holy  water,  a  present  from  Antonin  Moine;  further 
on  a  dainty  picture  of  Eugene  Deveria ;  the  sombre  figure  of 
some  Spanish  alchemist  by  Louis  Boulanger;  an  autograph 
letter  from  Lord  Byron  to  Caroline  in  an  ebony  frame,  carved 
by  Elschoet,  with  a  letter  of  Napoleon  to  Josephine  to  match 
it.  The  things  were  arranged  without  any  view  to  symmetry, 
and  yet  with  a  sort  of  unstudied  art;  the  whole  effect  took 
one,  as  it  were,  by  storm.  There  was  a  union  of  carelessness 
and  desire  to  please,  such  as  can  only  be  found  in  the  homes 
of  artists.  The  exquisitely-carved  mantelpiece  was  bare  ex- 
cept for  a  whimsical  Florentine  statue  in  ivory,  attributed  to 
Michael  Angelo,  representing  a  Pan  discovering  a  woman 
disguised  as  a  young  herd,  the  original  of  which  is  at  the 
Treasury  in  Vienna.  On  either  side  of  this  hung  an  iron 
candelabrum,  the  work  of  some  Renaissance  chisel.  A  Boule 
timepiece  on  a  tortoise-shell  bracket,  lacquered  with  copper 
arabesques,  glittered  in  the  middle  of  a  panel  between  two 
statuettes,  survivals  from  some  ruined  abbey.  In  the  corners 
of  the  room  on  pedestals  stood  gorgeously  resplendent  lamps 
— the  fee  paid  by  some  maker  to  Plorine  for  trumpeting  his 
wares  among  her  friends,  who  were  assured  that  Japanese 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  51 

pots,  with  rich  fittings,  made  the  only  possible  stand  for 
lamps.  On  a  marvelous  whatnot  lay  a  display  of  silver,  well- 
earned  trophy  of  a  combat  in  which  some  English  lord  had 
been  forced  to  acknowledge  the  superiority  of  the  French 
nation.  Next  came  porcelain  reliefs.  The  whole  room  dis- 
played the  charming  profusion  of  an  artist  whose  furniture 
represents  his  capital. 

The  bedroom,  in  violet,  was  a  young  ballet-girl's  dream: 
velvet  curtains,  lined  with  silk,  were  draped  over  inner  folds 
of  tulle;  the  ceiling  was  in  white  cashmere  relieved  with 
violet  silk;  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  lay  an  ermine  rug;  within 
the  bed-curtains,  which  fell  in  the  form  of  an  inverted  lily, 
hung  a  lantern  by  which  to  read  the  proofs  of  next  day's 
papers.  A  yellow  drawing-room,  enriched  with  ornaments 
the  color  of  Florentine  bronze,  carried  out  the  same  impres- 
sion of  magnificence,  but  a.  detailed  description  would  make 
these  pages  too  much  of  a  broker's  inventory.  To  find  any- 
thing comparable  to  these  treasures,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
visit  the  Eothschilds'  house  close  by. 

.  Sophie  Grignoult,  who,  following  the  usual  custom  of 
taking  a  stage  name,  was  known  as  Florine,  had  made  her 
debut,  beautiful  as  she  was,  in  a  subordinate  capacity.  Her 
triumph  and  her  wealth  she  owed  to  Raoul  Nathan.  The 
association  of  these  two  careers,  common  enough  in  the  dra- 
matic and  literary  world,  did  not  injure  Eaoul,  who,  in  his 
character  as  a  man  of  high  pretensions,  respected  the  pro- 
prieties. Nevertheless,  Florine's  fortune  was  far  from  as- 
sured. Her  professional  income,  arising  from  her  salary  and 
what  she  could  earn  in  her  holidays,  barely  sufficed  for  dress 
and  housekeeping.  Nathan  helped  her  with  contributions 
levied  on  new  ventures  in  trade,  and  was  always  chivalrous 
and  ready  to  act  as  her  protector;  but  the  support  he  gave 
was  neither  regular  nor  solid.  This  instability,  this  hand- 
to-mouth  life,  had  no  terrors  for  Florine.  She  believed  in 
her  talent  and  her  beauty;  and  this  robust  faith  had  some- 
thing comic  in  it  for  those  who  heard  her,  in  answer  to  re- 
monstrances, mortgaging  her  future  on  such  security. 


52  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"I  can  live  on  my  means  whenever  I  like,"  she  would 
say.  "I  have  fifty  francs  in  the  funds  now." 

No  one  could  understand  how,  with  her  beauty,  Florine 
had  remained  seven  years  in  obscurity;  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  enrolled  as  a  supernumerary  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  and  made  her  debut  two  years  later  in  a  humble 
theatre  on  the  boulevards.  At  fifteen,  beauty  and  talent  do 
not  exist;  there  can  only  be  promise  of  the  coming  woman. 
She  was  now  twenty-eight,  an  age  which  with  French  women 
is  the  culminating  point  of  their  beauty.  Painters  admired 
most  of  all  her  shoulders,  glossy  white,  with  olive  tints  about 
the  back  of  the  neck,  but  firm  and  polished,  reflecting  the 
light  like  watered  silk.  When  she  turned  her  head,  the  neck 
made  magnificent  curves  in  which  sculptors  delighted.  On 
this  neck  rose  the  small,  imperious  head  of  a  Roman  empress, 
graceful  and  finely  moulded,  round  and  self-assertive,  like 
that  of  Poppasa.  The  features  were  correct,  yet  expressive, 
and  the  unlined  forehead  was  that  of  an  easy-going  woman 
who  takes  all  trouble  lightly,  yet  can  be  obstinate  as  a  mule 
on  occasion  and  deaf  to  all  reason.  This  forehead,  with  its 
pure  unbroken  sweep,  gave  value  to  the  lovely  flaxen  hair, 
generally  raised  in  front,  in  Roman  fashion,  in  two  equal 
masses  and  twisted  into  a  high  knot  at  the  back,  so  as  to 
prolong  the  curve  of  the  neck  and  bring  out  its  whiteness. 
Dark,  delicate  eyebrows,  such  as  a  Chinese  artist  pencils, 
framed  the  heavy  lids,  covered  with  a  network  of  tiny  pink 
veins.  The  pupils,  sparkling  with  fire  but  spotted  with 
patches  of  brown,  gave  to  her  look  the  fierce  fixity  of  a  wild 
beajit,  emblematic  of  the  courtesan's  cold  heartlessness.  The 
lovely  gazelle-like  iris  was  a  beautiful  gray,  and  fringed  with 
black  lashes,  a  bewitching  contrast  which  brought  out  yet 
more  strikingly  the  expression  of  calm  and  expectant  desire. 
Darker  tints  encircled  the  eyes;  but  it  was  the  artistic  finish 
with  which  she  used  them  that  was  most  remarkable.  Those 
darting,  sidelong  glances  which  nothing  escaped,  the  upward 
gaze  of  her  dreamy  pose,  the  way  she  had  of  keeping  the 
iris  fixed,  while  charging  it  with  the  most  intense  passion 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  53 

and  without  moving  the  head  or  stirring  a  muscle  of  the  face 
— a  trick,  this,  learned  on  the  stage — the  keen  sweep  which 
would  embrace  a  whole  room  to  find  out  the  man  she  wanted, 
— these  were  the  arts  which  made  of  her  eyes  the  most  ter- 
rible, the  sweetest,  the  strangest  in  the  world. 

Eouge  had  spoiled  the  delicate  transparency  of  her  soft 
cheeks.  But  if  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  blush  or  grow  pale, 
she  had  a  slender  nose,  indented  by  pink,  quivering  nostrils, 
which  seemed  to  breathe  the  sarcasm  and  mockery  of  Moliere's 
waiting-maids.  Her  mouth,  sensual  and  luxurious,  lending 
itself  to  irony  as  readily  as  to  love,  owed  much  of  its  beauty 
to  the  finely-cut  edges  of  the  little  groove  joining  the  upper 
lip  to  the  nose.  Her  white,  rather  fleshy,  chin  portended 
storms  in  love.  Her  hands  and  arms  might  have  been  an 
empress'.  But  the  feet  were  short  and  thick,  ineradicable 
sign  of  low  birth.  Never  had  heritage  wrought  more  woe. 
In  her  efforts  to  change  it,  Florine  had  stopped  short  only 
at  amputation.  But  her  feet  were  obstinate,  like  the  Bretons 
from  whom  she  sprang,  and  refused  to  yield  to  any  science 
or  manipulation.  Florine  therefore  wore  long  boots,  stuffed 
with  cotton,  to  give  her  an  arched  instep.  She  was  of  medium 
height,  and  threatened  with  corpulence,  but  her  figure  still 
kept  its  curves  and  precision. 

Morally,  she  was  past  mistress  in  all  the  airs  and  graces, 
tantrums,  quips,  and  caresses  of  her  trade ;  but  she  gave  them 
a  special  character  by  affecting  childishness  and  edging  in 
a  sly  thrust  under  cover  of  innocent  laughter.  With  all  her 
apparent  ignorance  and  giddiness,  she  was  at  home  in  the 
mysteries  of  discount  and  commercial  law.  She  had  waded 
through  so  many  bad  times  to  reach  her  day  of  precarious 
triumph !  She  had  descended,  story  by  story,  to  the  ground- 
floor,  through  such  a  coil  of  intrigue !  She  knew  life  under 
so  many  forms;  from  that  which  dines  off  bread  and  cheese 
to  that  which  toys  listlessly  with  apricot  fritters;  from  that 
which  does  its  cooking  and  washing  in  the  corner  of  a  garret 
with  an  earthen  stove  to  that  which  summons  its  vassal  host 
of  big-paunched  chefs  and  impudent  scullions.  She  had  in- 


54  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

dulged  in  credit  without  killing  it.  She  knew  everything  of 
which  good  women  are  ignorant,  and  could  speak  all  lan- 
guages. A  child  of  the  people  by  her  origin,  the  refinement 
of  her  beauty  allied  her  to  the  upper  classes.  She  was  hard 
to  overreach  and  impossible  to  mystify;  for,  like  spies,  bar- 
risters, and  those  who  have  grown  old  in  statecraft,  she  kept 
an  open  mind  for  every  possibility.  She  knew  how  to  deal 
with  tradespeople  and  their  little  tricks,  and  could  quote 
prices  with  an  auctioneer.  Lying  back,  like  some  fair  young 
bride,  on  her  couch,  with  the  part  she  was  learning  in  her 
hand,  she  might  have  passed  for  a  guileless  and  ignorant  girl 
of  sixteen,  protected  only  by  her  innocence.  But  let  some 
importunate  creditor  arrive,  and  she  was  on  her  feet  like  a 
startled  fawn,  a  good  round  oath  upon  her  lips. 

"My  good  fellow,"  she  would  address  him,  "your  insolence 
is  really  too  high  an  interest  on  my  debt.  I  am  tired  of  the 
sight  of  you;  go  and  send  the  bailiffs.  Rather  them  than 
your  imbecile  face." 

Florine  gave  charming  dinners,  concerts,  and  crowded  re- 
ceptions, where  the  play  was  very  high.  Her  women  friends 
were  all  beautiful.  Never  had  an  old  woman  been  seen  at 
her  parties ;  she  was  entirely  free  from  jealousy,  which  seemed 
to  her  a  confession  of  weakness.  Among  her  old  acquaint- 
ances were  Coralie  and  la  Torpille ;  among  those  of  the  day, 
the  Tullias,  Euphrasie,  the  Aquilinas,  Mme.  du  Val-N"oble, 
Mariette ; — those  women  who  float  through  Paris  like  threads 
of  gossamer  in  the  air,  no  one  knowing  whence  they  come  or 
whither  they  go;  queens  to-day,  to-morrow  drudges.  Her 
rivals,  too,  came,  actresses  and  singers,  the  whole  company, 
in  short,  of  that  unique  feminine  world,  so  kindly  and  gra- 
cious in  its  recklessness,  whose  Bohemian  life  carries  away 
with  its  dash,  its  spirit,  its  scorn  of  to-morrow,  the  men  who 
join  the  frenzied  dance.  Though  in  Florine's  house  Bohe- 
mianimn  flourished  unchecked  to  a  chorus  of  gay  artists,  the 
mistress  had  all  her  wits  about  her,  and  could  use  them  as 
not  one  of  her  guests.  Secret  saturnalia  of  literature  and 
art  were  held  there  side  by  side  with  politics  and  finance. 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  55 

There  passion  reigned  supreme ;  there  temper  and  the  whim 
of  the  moment  received  the  reverence  which  a  simple  society 
pays  to  honor  and  virtue.  There  might  be  seen  Blondet, 
Finot,  fitienne  Lousteau,  her  seventh  lover,  who  believed  him- 
self to  be  the  first,  Felicien  Vernou,  the  journalist,  Couture, 
Bixiou,  Eastignac  formerly,  Claude  Vignon,  the  critic, 
Nucingen  the  banker,  du  Tillet,  Conti  the  composer;  in  a 
word,  the  whole  diabolic  legion  of  ferocious  egotists  in 
every  walk  of  life.  There  also  came  the  friends  of  the 
singers,  dancers,  and  actresses  whom  Florine  knew. 

Every  member  of  this  society  hated  or  loved  every  other 
member  according  to  circumstances.  This  house  of  call,  open 
to  celebrities  of  every  kind,  was  a  sort  of  brothel  of  wit,  a 
galleys  of  the  mind.  Not  a  guest  there  but  had  filched  his 
fortune  within  the  four  corners  of  the  law,  had  worked 
through  ten  years  of  squalor,  had  strangled  two  or  three  love 
affairs,  and  had  made  his  mark,  whether  by  a  book  or  a 
waistcoat,  a  drama  or  a  carriage  and  pair.  Their  time  was 
spent  in  hatching  mischief,  in  exploring  roads  to  wealth,  in 
ridiculing  popular  outbreaks,  which  they  had  incited  the  day 
before,  and  in  studying  the  fluctuations  of  the  money  market. 
Each  man,  as  he  left  the  house,  donned  again  the  livery  of 
his  beliefs,  which  he  had  cast  aside  on  entering  in  order  to 
abuse  at  his  ease  his  own  party,  and  admire  the  strategy  and 
skill  of  its  opponents,  to  put  in  plain  words  thoughts  which 
men  keep  to  themselves,  to  practise,  in  fine,  that  license  of 
speech  which  goes  with  license  in  action.  Paris  is  the  one 
place  in  the  world  where  houses  of  this  eclectic  sort  exist,  in 
which  ever}r  taste,  every  vice,  every  opinion,  finds  a  welcome, 
so  long  as  it  comes  in  decent  garb. 

It  remains  to  be  said  that  Florine  is  still  a  second-rate  ac- 
tress. Further,  her  life  is  neither  an  idle  nor  an  enviable  one. 
Many  people,  deluded  by  the  splendid  vantage  ground  which 
the  theatre  gives  to  a  woman,  imagine  her  to  live  in  a  per- 
petual carnival.  How  many  a  poor  girl,  buried  in  some 
porter's  lodge  or  under  an  attic  roof,  dreams  on  her  return 
from  the  theatre  of  pearls  and  diamonds,  of  dresses  decked 


56  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

with  gold  and  rich  sashes,  and  pictures  herself,  the  glitter 
of  the  footlights  on  her  hair,  applauded,  purchased,  wor- 
shiped, carried  off.  And  not  one  of  them  knows  the  facts  of 
that  treadmill  existence,  how  an  actress  is  forced  to  attend 
rehearsals  under  penalty  of  a  fine,  to  read  plays,  and  per- 
petually study  new  parts,  at  a  time  when  two  or  three  hun- 
dred pieces  a  year  are  played  in  Paris.  In  the  course  of  each 
performance,  Florine  changes  her  dress  two  or  three  times, 
and  often  she  returns  to  her  dressing-room  half-dead  with 
exhaustion.  Then  she  has  to  get  rid  of  the  red  or  white 
paint  with  the  aid  of  plentiful  cosmetics,  and  dust  the  powder 
out  of  her  hair,  if  she  has  heen  playing  an  eighteenth  century 
part.  Barely  has  she  time  to  dine.  When  she  is  playing,  an 
actress  can  neither  lace  her  stays,  nor  eat,  nor  talk.  For  sup- 
per again  Florine  has  no  time.  On  returning  from  a  per- 
formance, which  nowadays  is  not  over  till  past  midnight, 
she  has  her  toilet  for  the  night  to  make  and  orders  to  give. 
After  going  to  bed  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  she  has 
to  be  up  in  time  to  revise  her  parts,  to  order  her  dresses, 
to  explain  them  and  try  them  on;  then  lunch,  read  her  love- 
letters,  reply  to  them,  transact  business  with  her  hired  ap- 
plauders,  so  that  she  may  be  properly  greeted  on  entering 
and  leaving  the  stage,  and,  while  paying  the  bill  for  her  tri- 
umphs of  the  past  month,  order  wholesale  those  of  the  present. 
In  the  days  of  Saint  Genest,  a  canonized  actor,  who  neglected 
no  means  of  grace  a*nd  wore  a  hair-shirt,  the  stage,  we  must 
suppose,  did  not  demand  this  relentless  activity.  Often 
Florine  is  forced  to  feign  an  illness  if  she  wants  to  go  into 
the  country  and  pick  flowers  like  an  ordinary  mortal. 

Yet  these  purely  mechanical  occupations  are  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  mental  worries,  arising  from  intrigues 
to  be  conducted,  annoyances  to  vanity,  preferences  shown  by 
authors,  competition  for  parts,  with  its  triumphs  and  disap- 
pointments, unreasonable  actors,  ill-natured  rivals,  and  the 
importunities  of  managers  and  critics,  all  of  which  demand 
another  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day. 

And,  lastly,  there  is  the  art  itself  and  all  the  difficulties 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  57 

it  involves — the  interpretation  of  passion,  details  of  mim- 
icry, and  stage  effects,  with  thousands  of  opera-glasses  readj 
to  pounce  on  the  slightest  flaw  in  the  most  brilliant  present- 
ment. These  are  the  things  which  wore  away  the  life  and 
energy  of  Talma,  Lekain,  Baron,  Contat,  Clairon,  Champ- 
mesle.  In  the  pandemonium  of  the  greenroom  self-love  is 
sexless;  the  successful  artist,  man  or  woman,  has  all  other 
men  and  women  for  enemies. 

As  to  profits,  however  handsome  Florine's  salaries  may  be, 
they  do  not  cover  the  cost  of  the  stage  finery,  which — not 
to  speak  of  costumes — demands  an  enormous  expenditure 
in  long  gloves  and  shoes,  and  does  not  do  away  with  the 
necessity  for  evening  and  visiting  dresses.  One-third  of  such 
a  life  is  spent  in  begging  favors,  another  in  making  sure  the 
ground  already  won,  and  the  remainder  in  repelling  attacks; 
but  all  alike  is  work.  If  it  contains  also  moments  of  intense 
happiness,  that  is  because  happiness  here  is  rare  and  stolen, 
long  waited  for,  a  chance  godsend  amid  the  hateful  grind 
of  forced  pleasure  and  stage  smiles. 

To  Florine,  Eaoul's  power  was  a  sovereign  protection. 
He  saved  her  many  a  vexation  and  worry,  in  the  fashion  of 
a  great  noble  of  former  days  defending  his  mistress;  or, 
to  take  a  modern  instance,  like  the  old  men  who  go  on  the\r 
knees  to  the  editor  when  their  idol  has  been  scarified  by  some 
halfpenny  print.  He  was  more  than  a  lover  to  her;  he  ws*& 
a  staff  to  lean  on.  She  tended  him  like  a  father,  and  de- 
ceived him  like  a  husband;  but  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  she  would  not  have  sacrificed  for  him.  Eaoul  was  in- 
dispensable to  her  artistic  vanity,  to  the  tranquillity  of  her 
self-esteem,  and  to  her  dramatic  future.  Without  the  inter- 
vention of  some  great  writer,  no  great  actress  can  be  pro- 
duced; we  owe  la  Champmesle  to  Eacine,  as  we  owe  Mars 
to  Monvel  and  Andrieux.  Florine,  on  her  side,  could  do 
nothing  for  Eaoul,  much  as  she  would  have  liked  to  be  useful 
or  necessary  to  him.  She  counted  on  the  seductions  of  habit, 
and  was  always  ready  to  open  her  rooms  and  offer  the  pro- 
fusion of  her  table  to  help  his  plans  or  his  friends.  In  fact, 


98 

sh&  aspired  to  be  for  him  what  Madame  de  Pompadour  was 
for  Louis  XV.;  and  there  were  actresses  who  envied  her 
position,  just  as  there  were  journalists  who  would  have 
changed  places  with  Eaoul. 

Now,  those  who  know  the  bent  of  the  human  mind  to 
opposition  and  contrast  will  easily  understand  that  Eaoul, 
after  ten  years  of  this  rakish  Bohemian  life,  should  weary 
of  its  ups  and  downs,  its  revelry  and  its  writs,  its  orgies  and 
its  fasts,  and  should  feel  drawn  to  a  pure  and  innocent  love, 
as  well  as  to  the  gentle  harmony  of  a  great  lady's  existence. 
In  the  same  way,  the  Comtesse  Felix  longed  to  introduce 
the  torments  of  passion  into  a  life  the  bliss  of  which  had 
cloyed  through  its  sameness.  This  law  of  life  is  the  law  of 
all  art,  which  exists  only  through  contrast.  A  work  produced 
independently  of  such  aid  is  the  highest  expression  of  genius, 
as  the  cloister  is  the  highest  effort  of  Christianity. 

Raoul,  on  returning  home,  found  a  note  from  Florine, 
which  her  maid  had  brought,  but  was  too  sleepy  to  read  it. 
He  went  to  bed  in  the  restful  satisfaction  of  a  tender  love, 
which  had  so  far  been  lacking  to  his  life.  A  few  hours 
later,  he  found  important  news  in  this  letter,  news  of  which 
neither  Eastignac  nor  de  Marsay  had  dropped  a  hint.  Florine 
had  learned  from  some  indiscreet  friend  that  the  Chamber 
was  to  be  dissolved  at  the  close  of  the  session.  Eaoul  at 
once  went  to  Florine's,  and  sent  for  Blondet  to  meet  him 
there. 

In  Florine's  boudoir,  their  feet  upon  the  fire-dogs,  fimile 
and  Eaoul  dissected  the  political  situation  of  France  in 
1834.  On  what  side  lay  the  best  chance  for  a  man  who  wanted 
to  get  on?  Every  shade  of  opinion  was  passed  in  review — 
Republicans  pure  and  simple,  Republicans  with  a  President, 
Republicans  without  a  republic,  Dynastic  Constitutionalists 
and  Constitutionalists  without  a  dynasty,  Conservative  Min- 
isterialists and  Absolutist  Ministerialists;  lastly,  the  com- 
promising right,  the  aristocratic  right,  the  Legitimist  right, 
the  Henri-quinquist  right,  and  the  Carlist  right.  As  between 
the  party  of  obstruction  and  the  party  of  progress  there 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  69 

could  be  no  question;  as  well  might  one  hesitate  between 
life  and  death. 

The  vast  number  of  newspapers  at  this  time  in  circulation, 
representing  different  shades  of  party,  was  significant  of  the 
chaotic  confusion — the  sliisli,  as  it  might  vulgarly  be  called — 
to  which  politics  were  reduced.  Blondet,  the  man  of  his  day 
with  most  judgment,  although,  like  a  barrister  unable  to 
plead  his  own  cause,  he  could  use  it  only  on  behalf  of  others, 
was  magnificent  in  these  friendly  discussions.  His  advice 
to  Nathan  was  not  to  desert  abruptly. 

"It  was  Napoleon  who  said  that  young  republics  cannot 
be  made  out  of  old  monarchies.  Therefore,  do  you,  my 
friend,  become  the  hero,  the  pillar,  the  creator  of  a  left  centre 
in  the  next  Chamber,  and  a  political  future  is  before  you. 
Once  past  the  barrier,  once  in  the  Ministry,  a  man  can  do 
what  he  pleases,  he  can  wear  the  winning  colors." 

Nathan  decided  to  start  a  political  daily  paper,  of  which 
he  should  have  the  complete  control,  and  to  affiliate  to  it 
one  of  those  small  society  sheets  with  which  the  press 
swarmed,  establishing  at  the  same  time  a  connection  with 
some  magazine.  The  press  had  been  the  mainspring  of  so 
many  fortunes  around  him  that  Nathan  refused  to  listen 
to  Blondet's  warnings  against  trusting  to  it.  In  Blondet's 
opinion,  the  speculation  was  unsafe,  because  of  the  multitude 
of  competing  papers,  and  because  the  power  of  the  press 
seemed  to  him  used  up.  Raoul,  strong  in  his  supposed 
friends  and  in  his  courage,  was  keen  to  go  forward;  with  a 
gesture  of  pride  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed: 

"I  shall  succeed !" 

"You  haven't  a  penny !" 

"I  shall  write  a  play !" 

"It  will  fall  dead." 

"Let  it,"  said  Nathan. 

He  paced  up  and  down  Florine's  room,  followed  by  Blon- 
det, who  thought  he  had  gone  crazy ;  he  cast  covetous  glances 
on  the  costly  treasures  piled  up  around ;  then  Blondet  under- 
stood Mm. 


60  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"There's  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  francs'  worth 
here,"  said  fimile. 

"Yes,"  said  Raoul,  with  a  sigh  towards  Florine's  sumptuous 
bed;  "but  I  would  sell  patent  safety-chains  on  the  boulevards 
and  live  on  fried  potatoes  all  my  life  rather  than  sell  a  single 
patera  from  these  rooms." 

"Not  one  patera,  no,"  said  Blondet,  "but  the  whole  lot ! 
Ambition  is  like  death;  it  clutches  all  because  life,  it  knows, 
is  hounding  it  on." 

"No!  a  thousand  times,  no!  I  would  accept  anything 
from  that  Countess  of  yesterday,  but  to  rob  Florine  of  her 
nest?  .  .  ." 

"To  overthrow  one's  mint,"  said  Blondet,  with  a  tragic 
air,  "to  smash  up  the  coining-press,  and  break  the  stamp, 
is  certainly  serious." 

"From  what  I  can  gather,  you  are  abandoning  the  stage 
for  politics,"  said  Florine,  suddenly  breaking  in  on  them. 

"Yes,  my  child,  yes,"  said  Raoul  good-naturedly,  putting 
his  arm  round  her  neck  and  kissing  her  forehead.  "Why 
that  frown  ?  It  will  be  no  loss  to  you.  Won't  the  minister  be 
better  placed  than  the  journalist  for  getting  a  first-rate  en- 
gagement for  the  queen  of  the  boards?  You  will  still  have 
your  parts  and  your  holidays." 

"Where  is  the  money  to  come  from  ?"  she  asked. 

"From  my  uncle,"  replied  Raoul. 

Florine  knew  this  "uncle."  The  word  meant  a  money- 
lender, just  as  "my  aunt"  was  the  vulgar  name  for  a  pawn- 
broker. 

"Don't  bother  yourself,  my  pretty  one,"  said  Blondet  to 
Florine,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder.  "I  will  get  Massol  to 
help  him.  He's  a  barrister,  and,  like  the  rest  of  them,  intends 
to  have  a  turn  at  being  Minister  of  Justice.  Then  there's 
du  Tillet,  who  wants  a  seat  in  the  Chamber;  Finot,  who  is 
still  backing  a  society  paper;  Plantin,  who  has  his  eye  on  a 
post  under  the  Conseil  d'fitat,  and  who  has  some  share  in 
a  magazine.  No  fear!  I  won't  let  him  ruin  himself.  We 
will  get  a  meeting  here  with  Etienne  Lousteau,  who  will  do 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  61 

the  light  stuff,  and  Claude  Vignon  for  the  serious  criticism. 
Felicien  Vernou  will  be  the  charwoman  of  the  paper,  the 
barrister  will  sweat  for  it,  du  Tillet  will  look  after  trade  and 
the  Exchange,  and  we  shall  see  where  this  union  of  deter- 
mined men  and  their  tools  will  land  us." 

"In  the  workhouse  or  on  the  Government  bench,  those 
refuges  for  the  ruined  in  body  or  mind,"  said  Raoul. 

"What  about  the  dinner?" 

"We'll  have  it  here,"  said  Raoul,  "five  days  hence." 

"Let  me  know  how  much  you  need,"  said  Florine  simply. 

"Why,  the  barrister,  du  Tillet,  and  Raoul  can't  start  with 
less  than  one  hundred  thousand  francs  apiece,"  said  Blondet. 
''That  will  run  the  paper  very  well  for  eighteen  months,  time 
enough  to  make  a  hit  or  miss  in  Paris." 

Florine  made  a  gesture  of  approval.  The  two  friends 
then  took  a  cab  and  set  out  in  quest  of  guests,  pens,  ideas, 
and  sources  of  support.  The  beautiful  actress  on  her  part 
sent  for  four  dealers  in  furniture,  curiosities,  pictures,  and 
jewelry.  The  dealers,  who  were  all  men  of  substance,  entered 
the  sanctuary  and  made  an  inventory  of  its  whole  contents, 
just  as  though  Florine  were  dead.  She  threatened  them 
with  a  public  auction  in  case  they  hardened  their  hearts  in 
hopes  of  a  better  opportunity.  She  had,  she  told  them,  excited 
the  admiration  of  an  English  lord  in  a  mediaeval  part,  and  she 
wished  to  dispose  of  all  her  personal  property,  in  order  that 
her  apparently  destitute  condition  might  move  him  to  present 
her  with  a  splendid  house,  which  she  would  furnish  as  a 
rival  to  Rothschilds'.  With  all  her  arts,  she  only  succeeded  in 
getting  an  offer  of  seventy  thousand  francs  for  the  whole  of 
the  spoil,  which  was  well  worth  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand. Florine,  who  did  not  care  a  button  for  the  things, 
promised  they  should  be  handed  over  in  seven  days  for  eighty 
thousand  francs. 

"You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,"  she  said. 

The  bargain  was  concluded.  When  the  dealers  had  gone, 
the  actress  skipped  for  joy,  like  the  little  hills  of  King  David. 
She  could  not  contain  herself  for  delight;  never  had  she 


02  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

dreamed  of  such  wealth.  When  Kaoul  returned,  she  pre- 
tended to  be  ofi'ended  with  him,  and  declared  that  she  was 
deserted.  She  saw  through  it  all  now ;  men  don't  change  their 
party  or  leave  the  stage  for  the  Chamber  without  some  reason. 
There  must  be  a  rival !  Her  instinct  told  her  so !  Vows  of 
eternal  love  rewarded  her  little  comedy. 

Five  days  later,  Florine  gave  a  magnificent  entertainment. 
The  ceremony  of  christening  the  paper  was  then  performed 
amidst  floods  of  wine  and  wit,  oaths  of  fidelity,  of  good  fel- 
lowship, and  of  serious  alliance.  The  name,  forgotten  now, 
like  the  Liberal,  the  Communal,  the  Departemental,  the  Garde 
National,  the  Federal,  the  Impartial,  was  something  which 
ended  in  al,  and  was  bound  not  to  take.  Descriptions  of 
banquets  have  been  so  numerous  in  a  literary  period  which 
had  more  first-hand  experience  of  starving  in  an  attic,  that 
it  would  be  difficult  to  do  justice  to  Florine's.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that,  at  three  in  the  morning,  Florine  was  able  to 
undress  and  go  to  bed  as  if  she  had  been  alone,  though  not 
one  of  her  guests  had  left.  These  lights  of  their  age  were 
sleeping  like  pigs.  When,  early  in  the  morning,  the  packers, 
commissionaires,  and  porters  arrived  to  carry  off  the  gorgeous 
trappings  of  the  famous  actress,  she  laughed  aloud  to  see 
them  lifting  these  celebrities  like  heavy  pieces  of  furniture 
and  depositing  them  on  the  floor. 

Thus  the  splendid  collection  went  its  way. 

Florine  carried  her  personal  remembrances  to  shops  where 
the  sight  of  them  did  not  enlighten  passers-by  as  to  how 
and  when  these  flowers  of  luxury  had  been  paid  for.  It  was 
agreed  tc  leave  her  until  the  evening  a  few  specially  reserved 
articles,  including  her  bed,  her  table,  and  her  crockery,  so 
that  she  might  offer  breakfast  to  her  guests.  These  witty 
gentlemen,  having  fallen  asleep  under  the  beauteous  drapery 
of  wealth,  awoke  to  the  cold,  naked  walls  of  poverty,  studded 
with  nail-marks  and  disfigured  by  those  incongruous  patches 
which  are  found  at  the  back  of  wall  decorations,  as  ropes 
behind  an  opera  scene. 

"Why,   Florine,  the  poor  girl  has   an  execution  in  the 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  S3 

house!"  cried  Bixiou,  one  of  the  guests.  "Quick!  your 
pockets,  gentlemen  !  A  subscription !" 

At  these  words  the  whole  company  was  on  foot.  The  net 
sweepings  of  the  pockets  came  to  thirty-seven  francs,  which 
Eaoul  handed  over  with  mock  ceremony  to  the  laughing 
Florine.  The  happy  courtesan  raised  her  head  from  the  pil- 
low and  pointed  to  a  heap  of  bank-notes  on  the  sheet,  thick  as 
in  the  golden  days  of  her  trade.  Raoul  called  Blondet. 

"I  see  it  now,"  said  Blondet.  "The  little  rogue  has  sold 
off  without  a  word  to  us.  Well  done,  Florine !" 

Delighted  with  this  stroke,  the  few  friends  who  remained 
carried  Florine  in  triumph  and  deshabille  to  the  dining-room. 
The  barrister  and  the  bankers  had  gone.  That  evening 
Florine  had  a  tremendous  reception  at  the  theatre.  The 
rumor  of  her  sacrifice  was  all  over  the  house. 

"I  should  prefer  to  be  applauded  for  my  talent,"  said 
Florine's  rival  to  her  in  the  greenroom. 

"That  is  very  natural  on  the  part  of  an  artist  who  has  never 
yet  won  applause  except  for  the  lavishness  of  her  favors,"  she 
replied. 

During  the  evening  Florine's  maid  had  her  things  moved 
to  Eaoul's  flat  in  the  Passage  Sandrie.  The  journalist  was 
to  pitch  his  camp  in  the  building  where  the  newspaper  office 
was  opened. 

Such  was  the  rival  of  the  ingenuous  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 
Raoul's  fancy  was  a  link  binding  the  actress  to  the  lady  of 
title.  It  was  a  ghastly  tie  like  this  which  was  severed  by 
that  Duchess  of  Louis  XIV.'s  time  who  poisoned  Lecouvreur; 
nor  can  such  an  act  of  vengeance  be  wondered  at,  considering 
the  magnitude  of  the  offence. 


64  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

CHAPTER  VI 

LOVE   VERSUS    SOCIETY 

FLORINE  proved  no  difficult}''  in  the  early  stages  of  Raoul's 
passion.  Foreseeing  financial  disappointments  in  the  haz- 
ardous scheme  into  which  he  had  plunged,  she  begged  leave 
of  absence  for  six  months.  Raoul  took  an  active  part  in  the 
negotiation,  and  by  bringing  it  to  a  successful  issue  still 
further  endeared  himself  to  Florine.  With  the  good  sense  of 
the  peasant  in  La  Fontaine's  fable,  who  makes  sure  of  his 
dinner  while  the  patricians  are  chattering  over  plans,  the 
actress  hurried  off  to  the  provinces  and  abroad,  to  glean 
the  wherewithal  to  support  the  great  man  during  his  place- 
hunting. 

Up  to  the  present  time  the  art  of  fiction  has  seldom  dealt 
with  love  as  it  shows  itself  in  the  highest  society,  a  com- 
pound of  noble  impulse  and  hidden  wretchedness.  There 
is  a  terrible  strain  in  the  constant  check  imposed  on  passion 
by  the  most  trivial  and  trumpery  incidents,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  the  thread  snaps  from  sheer  lassitude.  Perhaps  some 
glimpse  of  what  it  means  may  be  obtained  here. 

The  day  after  Lady  Dudley's  ball,  although  nothing  ap- 
proaching a  declaration  had  escaped  on  either  side,  Marie  felt 
that  Raoul's  love  was  the  realization  of  her  dreams,  and 
Raoul  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  chosen  of  Marie's  heart. 
Neither  of  the  two  had  reached  that  point  of  depravity 
where  preliminaries  are  curtailed,  and  yet  they  advanced 
rapidly  towards  the  end.  Raoul,  sated  with  pleasure,  was 
in  the  mood  for  Platonic  affection ;  whilst  Marie,  from  whom 
the  idea  of  an  actual  fault  was  still  remote,  had  never  con- 
templated passing  beyond  it.  Never,  therefore,  was  love  more 
pure  and  innocent  in  fact,  or  more  impassioned  and  rapturous 
in  thought,  than  this  of  Raoul  and  Marie.  The  Countess  had 
been  fascinated  by  ideas  which,  though  clothed  in  modern 
dress,  belonged  to  the  times  of  chivalry.  In  her  role,  as  she 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  65 

conceived  it,  her  husband's  dislike  to  Xathan  no  longer  ap- 
peared an  obstacle  to  her  love.  The  less  Eaoul  merited  es- 
teem, the  nobler  was  her  mission.  The  inflated  language 
of  the  poet  stirred  her  imagination  rather  than  her  blood. 
It  was  charity  which  wakened  at  the  call  of  passion.  This 
queen  of  the  virtues  lent  what  in  the  eyes  of  the  Countess 
Beemed  almost  a  sanction  to  the  tremors,  the  delights,  the 
turbulence  of  her  love.  She  felt  it  a  fine  thing  to  be  the 
human  providence  of  Raoul.  How  sweet  to  think  of  sup- 
porting with  her  feeble,  white  hand  this  colossal  figure,  whose 
feet  of  clay  she  refused  to  see,  of  sowing  life  where  none  had 
been,  of  working  in  secret  at  the  foundation  of  a  great  destiny. 
With  her  help  this  man  of  genius  should  wrestle  with  and 
overcome  his  fate;  her  hand  should  embroider  his  scarf  for 
the  tourney,  buckle  on  his  armor,  give  him  a  charm  against 
sorcery,  and  balm  for  all  his  wounds ! 

In  a  woman  with  Marie's  noble  nature  and  religious  up- 
bringing this  passionate  charity  was  the  only  form  love  could 
assume.  Hence  her  boldness.  The  pure  in  mind  have  a 
superb  disdain  for  appaarances,  which  may  be  mistaken  for 
the  shamelessness  of  the  courtesan.  No  sooner  had  the 
Countess  assured  herself  by  casuistical  arguments  that  her 
husband's  honor  ran  no  risk,  than  she  abandoned  herself 
completely  to  the  bliss  of  loving  Eaoul.  The  most  trivial 
things  in  life  had  now  a  charm  for  her.  The  boudoir  in 
which  she  dreamed  of  him  became  a  sanctuary.  Even  her 
pretty  writing-table  recalled  to  her  the  countless  joys  of 
correspondence;  there  she  would  have  to  read,  to  hide,  his 
letters;  there  reply  to  them.  Dress,  that  splendid  poem  of 
a  woman's  life,  the  significance  of  which  she  had  either  ex- 
hausted or  ignored,  now  appeared  to  her  full  of  a  magic 
hitherto  unknown.  Suddenly  it  became  to  her  what  it  is  to  all 
women — a  continuous  expression  of  the  inner  thought,  a 
language,  a  symbol.  What  wealth  of  delight  in  a  costume 
designed  for  his  pleasure,  in  his  honor!  She  threw  herself 
with  all  simplicity  into  those  charming  nothings  which  make 
the  business  of  a  Paris  woman's  life,  and  which  charge  with 


66  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

meaning  every  detail  in  her  house,  her  person,  her  clothes. 
Rare  indeed  are  the  women  who  frequent  dress  shops,  milli- 
ners, and  fashionable  tailors  simply  for  their  own  pleasure. 
AB  they  become  old  they  cease  to  think  of  dress.  Scrutinize 
the  face  which  in  passing  you  see  for  a  moment  arrested 
before  a  shop-front :  "Would  he  like  me  better  in  this  ?"  are 
the  words  written  plain  in  the  clearing  brow,  in  eyes  sparkling 
with  hope,  and  in  the  smile  that  plays  upon  the  lips. 

Lady  Dudley's  ball  took  place  on  a  Saturday  evening;  on 
the  Monday  the  Countess  went  to  the  opera,  allured  by  the 
certainty  of  seeing  Eaoul.  Raoul,  in  fact,  was  there,  planted 
on  one  of  the  staircases  which  lead  down  to  the  amphitheatre 
stalls.  He  lowered  his  eyes  as  the  Countess  entered  her  box. 
With  what  ecstasy  did  Mine,  de  Vandenesse  observe  the  un- 
wonted carefulness  of  her  lover's  attire !  This  contemner 
of  the  laws  of  elegance  might  be  seen  with  well-brushed  hair, 
which  shone  with  scent  in  the  recesses  of  every  curl,  a  fash- 
ionable waistcoat,  a  well-fastened  tie,  and  an  immaculate 
shirt-front.  Under  the  yellow  gloves,  which  were  the  order  of 
the  day,  his  hands  showed  very  white.  Raoul  kept  his  arms 
crossed  over  his  breast,  as  though  posing  for  his  portrait, 
superbly  indifferent  to  the  whole  house,  which  murmured 
with  barely  restrained  impatience.  His  eyes,  though  bent  on 
the  ground,  seemed  turned  towards  the  red  velvet  bar  on 
which  Marie's  arm  rested.  Felix,  seated  in  the  opposite  corner 
of  the  box,  had  his  back  to  Nathan.  The  Countess  had  been 
adroit  enough  to  place  herself  so  that  she  looked  straight 
down  on  the  pillar  against  which  Raoul  leaned.  In  a  single 
hour,  then,  Marie  had  brought  this  clever  man  to  abjure 
his  cynicism  in  dress.  The  humblest,  as  well  as  the  most 
distinguished,  woman  must  feel  her  head  turned  by  the  first 
open  declaration  of  her  power  in  such  a  transformation. 
Every  change  is  a  confession  of  servitude. 

"They  were  right,  there  is  a  great  happiness  in  being  un- 
derstood," she  said  to  herself,  calling  to  mind  her  unworthy 
instructors. 

When  the  two  lovers  had  scanned  the  house  in  a  rapid 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  67 

all-embracing  survey,  they  exchanged  a  glance  of  intelligence. 
For  both  it  was  as  though  a  heavenly  dew  had  fallen  with 
cooling  power  upon  their  fevered  suspense.  "I  have  been  in 
hell  for  an  hour;  now  the  heavens  open,"  spoke  the  eyes  of 
Eaoul. 

"I  kut'W  you  were  there,  but  am  I  free?"  replied  those  of 
the  Countess. 

Nona  but  slaves  of  every  variety,  including  thieves,  spies, 
lovers,  aad  diplomatists,  know  all  that  a  flash  of  the  eye  can 
convey  of  information  or  delight.  They  alone  can  grasp 
the  intelligence,  the  sweetness,  the  humor,  the  wrath,  and  the 
malice  with  which  this  changeful  lightning  of  the  soul  is 
pregnant.  Kaoul  felt  his  passion  kick  against  the  pricks  of 
necessity  and  grow  more  vigorous  in  presence  of  obstacles. 
Between  the  step  on  which  he  was  perched  and  the  box  of 
the  Comt«sse  Felix  de  Vandenesse  was  a  space  of  barely  thirty 
feet,  impassable  for  him.  To  a  passionate  man  who,  so  far 
in  his  life,  had  known  but  little  interval  between  desire  and 
satisfaction,  this  abyss  of  solid  ground,  which  could  not  be 
spanned,  inspired  a  wild  desire  to  spring  upon  the  Countess 
in  a  tiger-like  bound.  In  a  paroxysm  of  fury  he  tried  to 
feel  his  way.  He  bowed  openly  to  the  Countess,  who  replied 
with  a  slight,  scornful  inclination  of  the  head,  such  as  women 
use  for  snubbing  their  admirers.  Felix  turned  to  see  who 
had  greeted  his  wife,  and  perceiving  Nathan,  of  whom  he 
took  no  notice  beyond  a  mute  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  this 
liberty,  turned  slowly  away  again,  with  some  words  probably 
approving  of  his  wife's  assumed  coldness.  Plainly  the  door 
of  the  box  was  barred  against  Nathan,  who  hurled  a  threat- 
ening glance  at  Felix,  which  it  required  no  great  wit  to  in- 
terpret by  one  of  Florine's  sallies,  "Look  out  for  your  hat; 
it  will  soon  not  rest  on  your  head  !" 

Mme.  d'Espard,  one  of  the  most  insolent  women  of  her 
time,  who  had  been  watching  these  manoeuvres  from  her  box, 
now  raised  her  voice  in  some  meaningless  bravo.  Raoul,  who 
was  standing  beneath  her,  turned.  He  bowed,  and  received 
in  return  a  gracious  smile,  which  so  clearly  said,  "If  you 


68  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

are  dismissed  there,  come  to  me !"  that  Eaoul  left  his  column 
and  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mme.  d'Espard.  He  wanted  to  be 
seen  there  in  order  to  show  that  fellow  Vandenesse  that  his 
fame  was  equal  to  a  patent  of  nobility,  and  that  before 
Nathan  blazoned  doors  flew  open.  The  Marchioness  made 
him  sit  down  in  the  front  of  the  box  opposite  to  her.  She  in- 
tended to  play  the  inquisitor. 

"Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  looks  charming  to-night,"  she 
said,  congratulating  him  on  the  lady's  dress,  as  though  it  were 
a  book  he  had  just  published. 

"Yes,"  said  Eaoul  carelessly,  "marabouts  are  very  becom- 
ing to  her.  But  she  is  too  constant,  she  wore  them  the  day 
before  yesterday/'  he  added,  with  an  easy  air,  as  though  by 
his  critical  attitude  to  repudiate  the  flattering  complicity 
which  the  Marchioness  had  laid  to  his  charge. 

"You  know  the  proverb  ?"  she  replied.  "  'Every  feast  day 
should  have  a  morrow.' '; 

At  the  game  of  repartee  literary  giants  are  not  always  equal 
to  ladies  of  title.  Raoul  took  refuge  in  a  pretended  stupidity, 
the  last  resource  of  clever  men. 

"The  proverb  is  true  for  me,"  he  said,  casting  an  admiring 
look  on  the  Marchioness. 

"Your  pretty  speech,  sir,  comes  too  late  for  me  to  accept 
it,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "Come,  come,  don't  be  a  prude; 
in  the  small  hours  of  yesterday  morning,  you  thought  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  entrancing  in  marabouts;  she  was  perfectly 
aware  of  it,  and  puts  them  on  again  to  please  you.  She  is 
in  love  with  you,  and  you  adore  her;  no  time  has  been  lost, 
certainly;  still  I  see  nothing  in  it  but  what  is  most  natural. 
If  it  were  not  as  I  say,  you  would  not  be  tearing  your  glove 
to  pieces  in  your  rage  at  having  to  sit  here  beside  me,  instead 
of  in  the  box  of  your  idol — which  has  just  been  shut  in  your 
face  by  supercilious  authority — whispering  low  what  you 
would  fain  hear  said  aloud." 

Eaoul  was  in  fact  twisting  one  of  his  gloves,  and  the  hand 
which  he  showed  was  surprisingly  white. 

"She  has  won  from  you,"  she  went  on,  fixing  his  hand  with 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  69 

an  impertinent  stare,  "sacrifices  which  you  refused  to  society. 
She  ought  to  be  enchanted  at  her  success,  and,  I  daresay,  she 
is  a  little  vain  of  it ;  but  in  her  place  I  think  I  should  be  more 
so.  So  far  she  has  only  been  a  woman  of  good  parts,  now 
she  will  pass  for  a  woman  of  genius.  We  shall  find  her 
portrait  in  one  of  those  delightful  books  of  yours.  But, 
my  dear  friend,  do  me  the  kindness  not  to  forget  Vandenesse. 
That  man  is  really  too  fatuous.  I  could  not  stand  such  self- 
complacency  in  Jupiter  Olympus  himself,  who  is  said  to  have 
been  the  only  god  in  mythology  exempt  from  domestic  mis- 
fortune." 

"Madame,"  cried  Eaoul,  "you  credit  me  with  a  very  base 
soul  if  you  suppose  that  I  would  make  profit  out  of  my  feel- 
ings, out  of  my  love.  Sooner  than  be  guilty  of  such  literary 
dishonor,  I  would  follow  the  English  custom,  and  drag  a 
woman  to  market  with  a  rope  round  her  neck." 

"But  I  know  Marie ;  she  will  ask  you  to  do  it," 

"No,  she  is  incapable  of  it,"  protested  Eaoul. 

"You  know  her  intimately  then?" 

Nathan  could  not  help  laughing  that  he,  a  playwright, 
should  be  caught  in  this  little  comedy  dialogue. 

"The  play  is  no  longer  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  foot- 
lights; "it  rests  with  you." 

To  hide  his  confusion,  he  took  the  opera-glass  and  began 
to  examine  the  house. 

"Are  you  vexed  with  me?"  said  the  Marchioness,  with  a 
sidelong  glance  at  him.  "Wouldn't  your  secret  have  been 
mine  in  any  case?  It  won't  be  hard  to  make  peace. 
Come  to  my  house,  I  am  at  home  every  Wednesday ;  the  dear 
Countess  won't  miss  an  evening  when  she  finds  you  come, 
and  I  shall  be  the  gainer.  Sometimes  she  comes  to  me  be- 
tween four  and  five  o'clock;  I  will  be  very  good-natured,  and 
add  you  to  the  select  few  admitted  at  that  hour." 

"Only  see,"  said  Baoul,  "how  unjust  people  are!  I  was 
told  you  were  spiteful." 

"Oh!  so  I  am,"  she  said,  "when  I  want  to  be.  One  has 
to  fight  for  one's  own  hand.  But  as  for  your  Countess, 


70  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

I  adore  her.  You  have  no  idea  how  charming  she  is !  You 
will  be  the  first  to  have  your  name  inscribed  on  her  heart  with 
that  infantine  joy  which  causes  all  lovers,  even  drill-sergeants, 
to  cut  their  initials  on  the  bark  of  a  tree.  A  woman's  first 
love  is  a  luscious  fruit.  Later,  you  see,  there  is  always  some 
calculation  in  our  attentions  and  caresses.  I'm  an  old  wo- 
man, and  can  say  what  I  like;  nothing  frightens  me,  not 
even  a  journalist.  Well,  then,  in  the  autumn  of  life,  we  know 
how  to  make  you  happy ;  but  when  love  is  a  new  thing,  we  are 
happy  ourselves,  and  that  gives  endless  satisfaction  to  your 
pride.  We  are  full  of  delicious  surprises  then,  because  the 
heart  is  fresh.  You,  who  are  a  poet,  must  prefer  flowers  to 
fruit.  Six  months  hence  you  shall  tell  me  about  it." 

Raoul  began  with  denying  everything,  as  all  men  do  when 
they  are  brought  to  the  bar,  but  found  that  this  only  supplied 
weapons  to  so  practised  a  champion.  Entangled  in  the  noose 
of  a  dialogue,  manipulated  with  all  the  dangerous  adroitness 
of  a  woman  and  a  Parisian,  he  dreaded  to  let  fall  admissions 
which  would  serve  as  fuel  for  the  lady's  wit,  and  he  beat 
a  prudent  retreat  when  he  saw  Lady  Dudley  enter. 

"Well,"  said  the  Englishwoman,  "how  far  have  they  gone  ?" 
"They  are  desperately  in  love.    Nathan  has  just  told  me 

80." 

"I  wish  he  had  been  uglier,"  said  Lady  Dudley,  with  a 
venomous  scowl  at  Felix.  "Otherwise,  he  is  exactly  what  I 
would  have  wished;  he  is  the  son  of  a  Jewish  broker,  who 
died  bankrupt  shortly  after  his  marriage;  unfortunately,  his 
mother  was  a  Catholic,  and  has  made  a  Christian  of  him." 

Nathan's  origin,  which  he  kept  a  most  profound  secret, 
was  a  new  discovery  to  Lady  Dudley,  who  gloated  in  advance 
over  the  delight  of  drawing  thence  some  pointed  shaft  to  aim 
at  Vandenesse. 

"And  I've  just  asked  him  to  my  house!"  exclaimed  the 
Marchioness. 

"Wasn't  he  at  my  ball  yesterday?"  replied  Lady  Dudley. 
"There  are  pleasures,  my  dear,  for  which  one  pays  heavily." 

The  news  of  a  mutual  passion  between  Eaoul  and  Mme.  de 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  71 

Vandenesse  went  the  round  of  society  that  evening,  not  with- 
out calling  forth  protests  and  doubts;  but  the  Countess  was 
defended  by  her  friends,  Lady  Dudley,  Mmes.  d'Espard,  and 
de  Manerville,  with  a  clumsy  tjagerness  which  gained  some 
credence  for  the  rumor.  Yielding  to  necessity,  Eaoul  went 
on  Wednesday  evening  to  Mme.  d'Espard's,  and  found  there 
the  usual  distinguished  company.  As  Felix  did  not  accom- 
pany his  wife,  Eaoul  was  able  to  exchange  a  few  words  with 
Marie,  the  tone  of  which  expressed  more  than  the  matter. 
The  Countess,  warned  against  malicious  gossips  by  Mme. 
Octave  de  Camps,  realized  her  critical  position  before  society, 
and  contrived  to  make  Raoul  understand  it  also. 

Amidst  this  gay  assembly,  the  lovers  found  their  only  joy 
in  a  long  draught  of  the  delicious  sensations  arising  from  the 
words,  the  voice,  the  gestures,  and  the  bearing  of  the  loved 
one.  The  soul  clings  desperately  to  such  trifles.  At  times 
the  eyes  of  both  will  converge  upon  the  same  spot,  embedding 
there,  as  it  were,  a  thought  of  which  they  thus  risk  the  inter- 
change. They  talk,  and  longing  looks  follow  the  peeping 
foot,  the  quivering  hand,  the  fingers  which  toy  with  some 
ornament,  flicking  it,  twisting  it  about,  then  dropping  it,  in 
significant  fashion.  It  is  no  longer  words  or  thoughts  which 
make  themselves  heard,  it  is  things;  and  that  in  so  clear  a 
voice,  that  often  the  man  who  loves  will  leave  to  others  the 
task  of  handing  a  cup  of  tea,  a  sugar-basin,  or  what  not, 
to  his  lady-love,  in  dread  lest  his  agitation  should  be  visible 
to  eyes  which,  apparently  seeing  nothing,  see  all.  Thronging 
desires,  mad  wishes,  passionate  thoughts,  find  their  way  into 
a  glance  and  die  out  there.  The  pressure  of  a  hand,  eluding 
a  thousand  Argus  eyes,  is  eloquent  as  written  pages,  burning 
as  a  kiss.  Love  grows  by  all  that  it  denies  itself ;  it  treads  on 
obstacles  to  reach  the  higher.  And  barriers,  more  often  cursed 
than  cleared,  are  hacked  and  cast  into  the  fire  to  feed  its 
flames.  Here  it  is  that  women  see  the  measure  of  their  power, 
when  love,  that  is  boundless,  coils  up  and  hides  itself  within  a 
thirsty  glance,  a  nervous  thrill,  behind  the  screen  of  formal 
civilitv.  How  often  has  not  a  single  word,  on  the  last  step 


72  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

of  a  staircase,  paid  the  price  of  an  evening's  silent  agony  and 
empty  talk ! 

Raoul,  careless  of  social  forms,  gave  rein  to  his  anger  in 
brilliant  oratory.  Everybody  present  could  hear  the  lion's 
roar,  and  recognized  the  artist's  nature,  intolerant  of  disap- 
pointment. This  Orlando-like  rage,  this  cutting  and  slashing 
wit,  this  laying  on  of  epigrams  as  with  a  club,  enraptured 
Marie  and  amused  the  onlookers,  much  as  the  spectacle  of  a 
maddened  bull,  covered  with  streamers,  in  a  Spanish  amphi- 
theatre, might  have  done. 

"Hit  out  as  much  as  you  like,  you  can't  clear  the  ring," 
Blondet  said  to  him. 

This  sarcasm  restored  to  Raoul  his  presence  of  mind;  he 
ceased  making  an  exhibition  of  himself  and  his  vexation. 
The  Marchioness  came  to  offer  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  said, 
loud  enough  for  Marie  to  hear : 

"You  are  really  very  amusing ;  come  and  see  me  sometimes 
at  four  o'clock." 

Raoul  took  offence  at  the  word  "amusing,"  although  it  had 
served  as  passport  to  the  invitation.  He  began  to  give  ear, 
as  actors  do,  when  they  are  attending  to  the  house  and  not 
to  the  stage.  Blondet  took  pity  on  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  drawing  him  aside  into  a  corner, 
"you  behave  in  polite  society  exactly  as  you  might  at  Florine's. 
Here  nobody  flies  into  a  passion,  nobody  lectures ;  from  time 
to  time  a  smart  thing  may  be  said,  and  you  must  look  most 
impassive  at  the  very  moment  when  you  long  to  throw  some 
one  out  of  the  window ;  a  gentle  raillery  is  allowed,  and  some 
show  of  attention  to  the  lady  you  adore,  but  you  can't  lie  down 
and  kick  like  a  donkey  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Here,  my 
good  soul,  love  proceeds  by  rule.  Either  carry  off  Mme.  de 
Vandenesse  or  behave  like  a  gentleman.  You  are  too  much 
the  lover  of  one  of  your  own  romances." 

Nathan  listened  with  hanging  head;  he  was  a  wild  beast 
caught  in  the  toils. 

"I  shall  never  set  foot  here  again,"  said  he.  "This  papier- 
mache  Marchioness  puts  too  high  a  price  upon  her  tea.  She 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  73 

thinks  me  amusing,  does  she?  Now  I  know  why  St.  Just 
guillotined  all  these  people." 

"You'll  come  back  to-morrow." 

Blondet  was  right.  Passion  is  as  cowardly  as  it  is  cruel. 
The  next  day,  after  fluctuating  long  between  "I'll  go"  and 
"I  won't  go,"  Eaoul  left  his  partners  in  the  middle  of  an 
important  discussion  to  hasten  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore 
and  Mme.  d'Espard's  house.  The  sight  of  Kastignac's  ele- 
gant cabriolet  driving  up  as  he  was  paying  his  cabman  at 
the  door  hurt  Nathan's  vanity;  he  too  would  have  such  a 
cabriolet,  he  resolved,  and  the  correct  tiger.  The  carriage 
of  the  Countess  was  in  the  court,  and  Eaoul's  heart  swelled 
with  joy  as  he  perceived  it.  Marie's  movements  responded 
to  her  longings  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock-hand  propelled 
by  its  spring.  She  was  reclining  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire- 
place in  the  small  drawing-room.  Instead  of  looking  at 
Nathan  as  he  entered,  she  gazed  at  his  reflection  in  the  mirror, 
feeling  sure  that  the  mistress  of  the  house  would  turn  to  him. 
Love,  baited  by  society,  is  forced  to  have  recourse  to  these 
little  tricks;  it  endows  with  life  mirrors,  muffs,  fans,  and 
numberless  objects,  the  purpose  of  which  is  not  clear  at  first 
sight,  and  is  indeed  never  found  out  by  many  of  the  women 
who  use  them. 

"The  Prime  Minister,"  said  Mme.  d'Espard,  with  a  glance 
at  de  Marsay,  as  she  drew  Nathan  into  the  conversation,  "was 
just  declaring,  when  you  came  in,  that  there  is  an  understand- 
ing between  the  Eoyalists  and  Eepublicans.  What  do  you 
say?  You  ought  to  know  something  about  it." 

"Supposing  it  were  so,  where  would  be  the  harm?"  said 
Eaoul.  "The  object  of  our  animosity  is  the  same;  we  agree 
in  our  hatred,  and  differ  only  in  what  we  love." 

"The  alliance  is  at  least  singular,"  said  de  Marsay,  with 
a  glance  which  embraced  Eaoul  and  the  Comtesse  Felix. 

"It  will  not  last,"  said  Eastignac,  who,  like  all  novices,  took 
his  politics  a  little  too  seriously. 

"What  do  you  say,  darling?"  asked  Mme.  d'Espard  of  the 
Countess. 


74  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"I  I  oh !  I  know  nothing  about  politics." 

"You  will  learn,  madame,"  said  de  Marsay,  "and  then  you 
will  be  doubly  our  enemy." 

Neither  Nathan  nor  Marie  understood  de  Marsay's  sally 
till  he  had  gone.  Rastignac  followed  him,  and  Mme.  d'Espard 
went  with  them  both  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  first  drawing- 
room.  Not  another  thought  did  the  lovers  give  to  the  min- 
ister's epigram ;  they  saw  the  priceless  wealth  of  a  few  minutes 
before  them.  Marie  swiftly  removed  her  glove,  and  held  out 
her  hand  to  Raoul,  who  took  it  and  kissed  it  with  the  fervor 
of  eighteen.  The  eyes  of  the  Countess  were  eloquent  of  a 
devotion  so  generous  and  absolute  that  Raoul  felt  his  own 
moisten.  A  tear  is  always  at  the  command  of  men  of  nervous 
temperament. 

"Where  can  I  see  you — speak  to  you?"  he  said.  "It  will 
kill  me  if  I  must  perpetually  disguise  my  looks  and  my  voice, 
my  heart  and  my  love." 

Moved  by  the  tear,  Marie  promised  to  go  to  the  Bois  when- 
ever the  weather  did  not  make  it  impossible.  This  promise 
gave  Raoul  more  happiness  than  Florine  had  brought  him  in 
five  years. 

"I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you !  I  suffer  so  from  the  silence 
to  which  we  are  condemned." 

The  Countess  was  gazing  at  him  rapturously,  unable  to 
reply,  when  the  Marchioness  returned. 

"So !"  she  exclaimed  as  she  entered,  "you  had  no  retort  for 
de  Marsay!" 

"One  must  respect  the  dead,"  replied  Raoul.  "Don't  you 
see  that  he  is  at  the  last  gasp  ?  Rastignac  is  acting  as  nurse, 
and  hopes  to  be  mentioned  in  the  will." 

The  Countess  made  an  excuse  of  having  calls  to  pay,  and 
took  leave,  as  a  precaution  against  gossip.  For  this  quarter 
of  an  hour  Raoul  had  sacrificed  precious  time  and  most 
urgent  claims.  Marie  as  yet  knew  nothing  of  the  details 
of  a  life  which,  while  to  all  appearance  gay  and  idle  as  a 
bird's,  had  yet  its  side  of  very  complicated  business  and  ex- 
tremely taxing  work.  When  two  beings,  united  by  an  en- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  75 

during  love,  lead  a  life  which  each  day  knits  them  more 
closely  in  the  bonds  of  mutual  confidence  and  by  the  inter- 
change of  counsel  over  difficulties  as  they  arise;  when  two 
hearts  pour  forth  their  sorrows,  night  and  morning,  with 
mingled  sighs ;  when  they  share  the  same  suspense  and  shud- 
der together  at  a  common  danger,  then  everything  is  taken 
into  account.  The  woman  then  can  measure  the  love  in 
an  averted  gaze,  the  cost  of  a  hurried  visit,  she  has  her  part 
in  the  business,  the  hurrying  to  and  fro,  the  hopes  and 
anxieties  of  the  hard-worked,  harassed  man.  If  she  com- 
plains, it  is  only  of  the  actual  conditions;  her  doubts  are  at 
rest,  for  she  knows  and  appreciates  the  details  of  his  life. 
But  in  the  opening  chapters  of  passion,  when  all  is  eagerness, 
suspicion,  and  demands ;  when  neither  of  the  two  know  them- 
selves or  each  other;  when,  in  addition,  the  woman  is  an 
idler,  expecting  love  to  stand  guard  all  day  at  her  door — 
one  of  those  who  have  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  their  own 
claims,  and  choose  to  be  obeyed  even  when  obedience  spells 
ruin  to  a  career — then  love,  in  Paris  and  at  the  present  time, 
becomes  a  superhuman  task.  Women  of  fashion  have  not 
yet  thrown  off  the  traditions  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when 
every  man  had  his  own  place  marked  out  for  him.  Few 
of  them  know  anything  of  the  difficulties  of  existence  for  the 
bulk  of  men,  all  with  a  position  to  carve  out,  a  distinction  to 
win,  a  fortune  to  consolidate.  Men  of  well-established  for- 
tune are,  at  present,  rare  exceptions.  Only  the  old  have 
time  for  love;  men  in  their  prime  are  chained,  like  Nathan, 
to  the  galleys  of  ambition. 

Women,  not  yet  reconciled  to  this  change  of  habits,  can- 
not bring  themselves  to  believe  any  man  short  of  the  time 
which  is  so  cheap  a  commodity  with  them;  they  can  imagine 
no  occupations  or  aims  other  than  their  own.  Had  the  gal- 
lant vanquished  the  hydra  of  Lerna  to  get  at  them,  he 
would  not  rise  one  whit  in  their  estimation;  the  joy  of 
seeing  him  is  everything.  They  are  grateful  because  he 
makes  them  happy,  but  never  think  of  asking  what  their  hap- 
piness has  cost  him.  Whereas,  if  they,  in  an  idle  hour,  have 


76  A  DAUGHTEK  OF  I3VE 

devised  some  stratagem  such  as  they  abound  in,  they  flaunt 
it  in  your  eyes  as  something  superlative.  You  have  wrenched 
the  iron  bars  of  destiny,  while  they  have  played  with  subter- 
fuge and  diplomacy — and  yet  the  palm  is  theirs,  dispute  were 
vain.  After  all,  are  they  not  right?  The  woman  who  gives 
up  all  for  you,  should  she  not  receive  all?  She  exacts  no 
more  than  she  gives. 

Eaoul,  during  his  walk  home,  pondered  on  the  difficulty 
of  directing  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  fashionable  intrigue, 
the  ten-horse  chariot  of  journalism,  his  theatrical  pieces,  and 
his  entangled  personal  affairs. 

"It  will  be  a  wretched  paper  to-night,"  he  said  to  him- 
self as  he  went;  "nothing  from  my  hand,  and  the  second 
number  too !" 

Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  went  three  times  to  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  without  seeing  Eaoul;  she  came  home  agitated 
and  despairing.  Nathan  was  determined  not  to  show  himself 
till  he  could  do  so  in  all  the  glory  of  a  press  magnate.  He 
spent  the  week  in  looking  out  for  a  pair  of  horses  and  a 
suitable  cabriolet  and  tiger,  in  persuading  his  partners  of 
the  necessity  of  sparing  time  so  valuable  as  his,  and  in  get- 
ting the  purchase  put  down  to  the  general  expenses  of  the 
paper.  Massol  and  du  Tillet  agreed  so  readily  to  this  request, 
that  he  thought  them  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  But  for 
this  assistance,  life  would  have  been  impossible  for  Eaoul. 
As  it  was,  it  became  so  taxing,  in  spite  of  the  exquisite  de- 
lights of  ideal  love  with  which  it  was  mingled,  that  many 
men,  even  of  excellent  constitution,  would  have  broken  down 
under  the  strain  of  such  distractions.  A  violent  and  re- 
ciprocal passion  is  bound  to  bulk  largely  even  in  an  ordinary 
life;  but  when  its  object  is  a  woman  of  conspicuous  posi- 
tion, like  Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  it  cannot  fail  to  play  havoc 
with  that  of  a  busy  man  like  Nathan. 

Here  are  some  of  the  duties  to  which  his  passion  gave  the 
first  place.  Almost  every  day  between  two  and  three  o'clock 
he  rode  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  the  style  of  the  purest 
dandy.  He  then  learned  in  what  house  or  at  what  theatre 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  77 

he  might  meet  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  again  that  evening.  He 
never  left  a  reception  till  close  upon  midnight,  when  he  had 
at  last  succeeded  in  snapping  up  some  long  watched-for  words, 
a  few  crumbs  of  tenderness,  artfully  dropped  below  the  table, 
or  in  a  corridor,  or  on  the  way  to  the  carriage.  Marie,  who 
had  launched  him  in  the  world  of  fashion,  generally  got  him 
invitations  to  dinner  at  the  houses  where  she  visited.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  natural.  Eaoul  was  too  proud,  and  also 
too  much  in  love,  to  say  a  word  about  business.  He  had 
to  obey  every  caprice  and  whim  of  his  innocent  tyrant ;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  following  closely  the  debates  in  the  Cham- 
ber and  the  rapid  current  of  politics,  directing  his  paper, 
and  bringing  out  two  plays  which  were  to  furnish  the  sinews 
of  war.  If  ever  he  asked  to  be  let  off  a  ball,  a  concert,  or  a 
drive,  a  look  of  annoyance  from  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  was 
enough  to  make  him  sacrifice  his  interests  to  her  pleasure. 

When  he  returned  home  from  these  engagements  at  one 
or  two  in  the  morning,  he  worked  till  eight  or  nine,  leav- 
ing scant  time  for  sleep.  Directly  he  was  up,  he  plunged 
into  consultations  with  influential  supporters  as  to  the  policy 
of  the  paper.  A  thousand  and  one  internal  difficulties  mean- 
time would  await  his  settlement,  for  journalism  nowadays 
has  an  all-embracing  grasp.  Business,  public  and  private 
interests,  new  ventures,  the  personal  sensitiveness  of  literary 
men,  as  well  as  their  compositions — nothing  is  alien  to  it. 
When,  harassed  and  exhausted,  Nathan  flew  from  his  office 
to  the  theatre,  from  the  theatre  to  the  Chamber,  from  the 
Chamber  to  a  creditor,  he  had  next  to  present  himself,  calm 
and  smiling,  before  Marie,  and  canter  beside  her  carriage 
with  the  ease  of  a  man  who  has  no  cares,  and  whose  only 
business  is  pleasure.  When,  as  sole  reward  for  so  many  un- 
noticed acts  of  devotion,  he  found  .only  the  gentlest  of  words 
or  prettiest  assurances  of  undying  attachment,  a  warm 
pressure  of  the  hand,  if  by  chance  they  escaped  observation 
for  a  moment,  or  one  or  two  passionate  expressions  in  re- 
sponse to  his  own,  Eaoul  began  to  feel  that  it  was  mere 
Quixotism  not  to  make  known  the  extravagant  price  he  paid 


78  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

for  these  "modest  favors,"  as  our  fathers  might  have  called 
them. 

The  opportunity  for  an  explanation  was  not  long  of  com- 
ing. On  a  lovely  April  day  the  Countess  took  Nathan's  arm 
in  a  secluded  corner  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  She  had  a 
pretty  little  quarrel  to  pick  with  him  about  one  of  those  mole- 
hills which  women  have  the  art  of  turning  into  mountains. 
There  was  no  smiling  welcome,  no  radiant  brow,  the  eyes 
did  not  sparkle  with  fun  or  happiness;  it  was  a  serious  and 
burdened  woman  who  met  him. 

"What  is  wrong  ?"  said  Nathan. 

"Oh!  Why  worry  about  trifles?"  she  said.  "Surely  you 
know  how  childish  women  are." 

"Are  you  angry  with  me  ?" 

"Should  I  be  here?" 

"But  you  don't  smile,  you  don't  seem  a  bit  glad  to  see 
me." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  I  am  cross,"  she  said,  with  the 
resigned  air  of  a  woman  determined  to  be  a  martyr. 

Nathan  walked  on  a  few  steps,  an  overshadowing  fear 
gripping  at  his  heart.  After  a  moment's  silence,  he  went 
on: 

"It  can  only  be  one  of  those  idle  fears,  those  vague  sus- 
picions, to  which  you  give  such  exaggerated  importance.  A 
straw,  a  thread  in  your  hands  is  enough  to  upset  the  balance 
of  the  world !" 

"Satire  next!  .  .  .  Well,  I  expected  it,"  she  said, 
hanging  her  head. 

"Marie,  my  beloved,  do  you  not  see  that  I  say  this  only  tc 
wring  your  secret  from  you  ?" 

"My  secret  will  remain  a  secret,  even  after  I  have  told 
you." 

"Well,  tell  me    .    .    ." 

"I  am  not  loved,"  she  said,  with  the  stealthy  side-look, 
which  is  a  woman's  instrument  for  probing  the  man  she 
means  to  torture. 

"Not  loved!"  exclaimed  Nathan. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  79 

"No ;  you  have  too  many  things  on  your  mind.  What  am 
I  in  the  midst  of  this  whirl?  You  are  only  too  glad  to 
forget  me.  Yesterday  I  came  to  the  Bois,  I  waited  for 
you- 


"But- 


"I  had  put  on  a  new  dress  for  you,  and  you  did  not  come. 
Where  were  you?" 

"But " 

"I  couldn't  tell.  I  went  to  Mme.  d'Espard's;  you  were 
not  there." 

"But " 

"At  the  opera  in  the  evening  my  eyes  never  left  the  bal- 
cony. Every  time  the  door  opened  my  heart  beat  so  that  I 
thought  it  would  break." 

"But " 

"What  an  evening!  You  have  no  conception  of  such 
agony !" 

"But " 

"It  eats  into  life " 

"But " 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Nathan,  "it  does  eat  into  life,  and  in  a  few- 
months  you  will  have  consumed  mine.  Your  wild  reproaches 
have  torn  from  me  my  secret  also.  .  .  .  Ah !  you  are 
not  loved?  My  God,  you  are  loved  too  well." 

He  drew  a  graphic  picture  of  his  straits.  He  told  her  how 
he  sat  up  at  nights,  how  he  had  to  keep  certain  engagements 
at  fixed  hours,  and  how,  above  all  things,  he  was  bound  to 
succeed.  He  showed  her  how  insatiable  were  the  claims  of 
a  paper,  compelled,  at  risk  of  losing  its  reputation,  to  be  be- 
forehand with  an  accurate  judgment  on  every  event  that 
took  place,  and  how  incessant  was  the  call  for  a  rapid 
survey  of  questions,  which  chased  each  other  like  clouds 
over  the  horizon  in  that  period  of  political  convulsions. 

In  a  moment  the  mischief  was  done.  Raoul  had  been  told 
by  the  Marquise  d'Espard  that  nothing  is  so  ingenuous  as  a 
first  love,  and  it  soon  appeared  that  the  Countess  erred  in 


80  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

loving  too  much,  A  loving  woman  meets  every  difficulty  with 
delight  and  with  fresh  proof  of  her  passion.  On  seeing  the 
panorama  of  this  varied  life  unrolled  before  her,  the  Countess 
was  filled  with  admiration.  She  had  pictured  Nathan  a 
great  man,  but  now  he  seemed  transcendent.  She  blamed 
herself  for  an  excessive  love,  and  begged  him  to  come  only 
when  he  was  at  liberty;  Nathan's  ambitious  struggles  sank 
to  nothing  before  the  glance  she  cast  towards  Heaven !  She 
would  wait!  Henceforth  her  pleasure  should  be  sacrificed. 
She,  who  had  wished  to  be  a  stepping-stone,  had  proved  only 
an  obstacle.  .  .  .  She  wept  despairingly. 

<rWomen,  it  seems,"  she  said  with  tearful  eyes,  "are  fit  only 
to  love.  Men  have  a  thousand  different  ways  of  spending 
their  energy;  all  we  can  do  is  to  dream,  and  pray,  and  wor- 
ship." 

So  much  love  deserved  a  recompense.  Peeping  round, 
like  a  nightingale  ready  to  alight  from  its  branch  beside  a 
spring  of  water,  she  tried  to  make  sure  whether  they  were 
alone  in  this  solitude,  and  whether  no  spectator  lurked  in 
the  silence.  Then  raising  her  head  to  Eaoul,  who  bent  his 
to  meet  her,  she  allowed  him  a  kiss,  the  first,  the  only,  con- 
traband kiss  she  was  destined  to  give.  At  that  instant  she 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  five  years,  while  Eaoul 
felt  himself  repaid  for  all  that  he  had  gone  through. 

They  had  to  return  to  their  carriages,  and  walked  on, 
hardly  knowing  whither,  along  the  road  from  Auteuil  to 
Boulogne,  moving  with  the  even  rhythmic  step  familiar  to 
lovers.  Confidence  came  to  Eaoul  in  that  kiss,  tendered  with 
the  modest  frankness  that  is  the  outcome  of  a  pure  mind. 
All  the  evil  came  from  society,  not  from  this  woman,  who  was 
so  absolutely  his.  The  hardships  of  his  frenzied  existence 
were  nothing  now  to  him ;  and  Marie,  in  the  ardor  of  her  first 
passion,  was  bound,  woman-like,  soon  to  forget  them,  since 
she  could  not  witness  from  hour  to  hour  the  terrible  throes  of 
a  life  too  exceptional  to  be  easily  imagined. 

Marie,  penetrated  by  the  grateful  veneration,  characteristic 
of  a  woman's  love,  hastened  with  resolute  and  active  tread 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  81 

along  the  sand-strewn  alley.  Like  Eaoul,  she  spoke  but  little, 
but  that  little  came  from  the  heart,  and  was  full  of  mean- 
ing. The  sky  was  clear;  buds  were  forming  on  the  larger 
trees,  where  already  spots  of  green  enlivened  the  delicate 
brown  tracery;  while  the  shrubs,  birches,  willows,  and  pop- 
lars showed  their  first  tender  and  unsubstantial  foliage. 
What  heart  can  resist  the  harmony  of  such  a  scene?  Love 
was  now  interpreting  nature  to  the  Countess,  as  it  had  already 
interpreted  the  ways  of  men. 

"If  only  I  were  your  first  love !"  she  breathed. 

"You  are,"  replied  Eaoul.  "We  have  each  been  the  first 
to  reveal  true  love  to  the  other." 

Nor  did  he  speak  falsely.  In  posing  before  this  fresh  young 
heart  as  a  man  of  pure  life,  he  became  affected  by  the  noble 
sentiments  with  which  he  embroidered  his  talk.  His  passion, 
at  first  a  matter  of  policy  and  ambition,  had  become  sincere. 
Starting  from  falsehood,  he  had  arrived  at  truth.  Add  to 
this  that  all  authors  have  a  natural  instinct,  repressed  only 
with  effort,  to  admire  moral  beauty.  Lastly,  a  man  has  but 
to  make  enough  sacrifices  in  order  to  become  attached  to  the 
person  demanding  them.  Women  of  the  world  know  this  in- 
tuitively, just  as  courtesans  do,  and  it  may  even  be  that  they 
unconsciously  act  upon  the  knowledge. 

The  Countess,  after  her  first  burst  of  surprised  gratitude,, 
was  delighted  to  have  inspired  so  much  devotion  and  been 
the  cause  of  such  astounding  feats.  The  man  who  loved  her 
was  worthy  of  her.  Eaoul  had  not  the  least  idea  to  what  this 
playing  at  greatness  would  commit  him.  He  forgot  that  no 
woman  will  allow  her  lover  to  fall  below  her  ideal  of  him, 
and  that  nothing  paltry  can  be  suffered  in  a  god.  Marie  had 
never  heard  that  solution  of  the  problem  which  Eaoul  had 
disclosed  to  his  friends  in  the  course  of  the  supper  at  Very's. 
His  struggles  as  a  man  of  letters,  forcing  his  way  upward 
from  the  masses,  had  filled  the  first  ten  years  of  early  man- 
hood; now  he  was  resolved  to  be  loved  by  one  of  the  queens 
of  the  fashionable  world.  Vanity,  without  which,  as  Cham- 


82  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

fort  said,  love  has  no  backbone,  sustained  his  passion,  and 
could  not  fail  to  augment  it  day  by  day. 

"Can  you  swear  to  me,"  said  Marie,  "that  you  are  noth- 
ing, and  never  will  be  anything,  to  another  woman?" 

"My  life  has  no  space  for  another,  even  were  my  heart 
free,"  was  his  reply,  made  in  all  sincerity,  so  completely  had 
Florine  dropped  out  of  sight. 

And  she  believed  him. 

When  they  reached  the  road  where  the  carriages  were  wait- 
ing, Marie  let  go  the  arm  of  Nathan,  who  at  once  assumed 
a  respectful  attitude,  as  though  this  were  a  chance  meeting. 
He  walked  with  her,  hat  in  hand,  as  far  as  the  carriage,  and 
then  followed  it  down  the  avenue  Charles  X.,  inhaling  the 
dust  it  raised,  and  watching  the  drooping  feathers  swaying 
in  the  wind. 

In  spite  of  Marie's  generous  resolutions  of  sacrifice,  Eaoul, 
spurred  on  by  passion,  continued  to  appear  wherever  she 
went ;  he  adored  the  half- vexed,  half -smiling  air  with  which 
she  vainly  tried  to  scold  him  for  wasting  the  time  he  could 
so  badly  spare.  Marie  began  to  take  Kaoul's  work  in  hand, 
laid  down  what  he  was  to  do  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  re- 
mained at  home  herself,  so  as  to  leave  him  no  excuse  for  taking 
a  holiday.  She  read  his  paper  every  morning,  and  she 
trumpeted  the  praises  of  fitienne  Lousteau  the  feuilletonist, 
whom  she  thought  charming,  of  Felicien  Vernou,  Claude 
Vignon,  and  all  the  staff.  It  was  she  who  advised  Raoul  to 
deal  generously  with  de  Marsay  when  he  died,  and  she  read 
with  dizzy  pride  the  fine  dignified  tribute  which  he  paid  the 
late  minister,  while  deploring  his  Machiavellianism  and 
hatred  of  the  masses.  She  was  of  course  present  in  a  stage 
box  at  the  Gymnase  on  the  first  night  of  the  play,  to  which 
Eaoul  was  trusting  for  the  funds  of  his  undertaking,  and 
which  seemed  to  her,  deceived  by  the  hired  applause,  an  im- 
mense success. 

"You  did  not  come  to  say  farewell  to  the  opera?"  asked 
Lady  Dudley,  to  whose  house  she  went  after  the  perform- 
ance. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  83 

"No;  I  was  at  the  Gymnase.    It  was  a  first  night." 

"I  can't  bear  vaudeville.  I  feel  to  it  as  Louis  XIV.  did  to 
a  Teniers,"  said  Lady  Dudley. 

"For  my  part,"  remarked  Mme.  d'Espard,  "I  think  they 
have  improved  very  much.  Vaudevilles  now  are  charming 
comedies,  full  of  wit,  and  the  work  of  very  clever  men.  I 
enjoy  them  immensely." 

"The  acting  is  so  good  too,"  said  Marie.  "The  play  to- 
night at  the  Gymnase  went  capitally;  it  seemed  to  suit  the 
actors,  and  the  dialogue  is  spirited  and  amusing." 

"A  regular  Beaumarchais  business,"  said  Lady  Dudley. 

"M.  Nathan  is  not  a  Moliere  yet,  but "  said  Mme. 

d'Espard,  with  a  look  at  the  Countess. 

"But  he  makes  vaudevilles,"  said  Mme.  Charles  de  Van- 
denesse. 

"And  unmakes  ministers,"  retorted  Mme.  de  Manerville. 

The  Countess  remained  silent;  she  racked  her  brains  for 
pungent  epigrams;  her  heart  burned  with  rage,  but  noth- 
ing better  occurred  to  her  than — 

"Some  day  perhaps  -he  will  make  one." 

All  the  women  exchanged  glances  of  mysterious  under- 
standing. When  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  had  gone,  Moina  de 
Saint-Heren  exclaimed: 

"Why,  she  adores  Nathan !" 

"She  makes  no  mystery  of  it,"  said  Mme.  d'Espard. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SUICIDE 

WITH  the  month  of  May,  Vandenesse  took  his  wife  away 
to  their  country  seat.  Here  her  only  comfort  was  in  pas- 
sionate letters  from  Eaoul,  to  whom  she  wrote  every  day. 

The  absence  of  the  Countess  might  possibly  have  saved 
Eaoul  from  the  abyss  over  which  he  hung  had  Florine  been 
with  him.  But  he  was  alone  amongst  friends,  secretly  turned 


84  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

to  enemies  ever  since  his  determination  to  take  the  whip 
hand  became  plain.  For  the  moment  he  was  an  object  of 
hatred  to  his  staff,  who  reserved  however  the  right  of  hold- 
ing out  a  consoling  hand  in  case  he  failed,  or  of  cringing  to 
him  should  he  succeed.  This  is  the  way  in  the  literary  world 
where  people  are  friendly  only  to  their  inferiors,  and  the  ris- 
ing man  has  everybody  against  him.  This  universal  jealousy 
increases  tenfold  the  chance  of  mediocrities,  who  arouse 
neither  envy  nor  suspicion.  Like  moles,  they  work  their  way 
underground,  and,  with  all  their  incompetence,  find  more 
than  one  snug  corner  in  the  official  lists,  while  really  able  men 
are  struggling  and  blocking  each  other  at  the  door  of  promo- 
tion. Florine,  with  the  inborn  gift  of  such  women  for  put- 
ting their  finger  on  the  real  thing  among  a  thousand  present- 
ments of  it,  would  at  once  have  detected  the  underhand 
animosity  of  these  false  friends. 

But  this  was  not  Eaoul's  greatest  danger.  His  two  part- 
ners, the  barrister  Massol  and  the  banker  du  Tillet,  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  harnessing  his  energy  to  the  car  in  which 
they  should  loll  at  ease,  with  the  full  intention  of  turning 
him  adrift  as  soon  as  his  resources  failed  to  keep  the  paper 
going,  or  of  wresting  it  from  his  hands  the  moment  they  saw 
their  way  to  using  this  powerful  instrument  for  their  own 
purposes.  To  their  minds,  Nathan  represented  so  much 
capital  to  run'  through,  a  literary  force,  equal  to  that  of  ten 
ordinary  writers,  to  exploit. 

Massol  belonged  to  the  type  of  barrister  who  takes  a 
flux  of  words  for  eloquence  and  can  weary  any  audience  by 
his  prolixity,  who  in  every  gathering  of  men  acts  as  a 
blight,  shriveling  up  their  enthusiasm,  yet  who  is  determined 
at  all  costs  to  be  a  somebody.  Massol's  ambition,  however, 
no  longer  pointed  to  the  ministry  of  justice.  Within  four 
years  he  had  seen  five  or  six  men  clothed  with  the  robes  of 
office,  and  this  had  cured  him  of  the  fancy.  Meanwmle  he 
was  ready  to  accept,  as  something  in  hand,  a  professorship  or 
a  post  under  the  Council,  with  of  course  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  to  season  the  dish.  Du  Tillet  and  the  Baron 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  85 

de  Nucingen  had  guaranteed  him  the  Cross  and  the  desired 
post  if  he  fell  in  with  their  views;  and  as  he  judged  them 
to  be  in  a  better  position  than  Nathan  for  fulfilling  their 
promises,  he  followed  them  blindly. 

The  better  to  hoodwink  Eaoul,  these  men  allowed  him  to 
exercise  uncontrolled  power.  Du  Tillet  only -made  use  of 
the  paper  for  his  stock-jobbing  interests,  which  were  outside 
Eaoul's  ken.  He  had,  however,  already  given  Eastignac  to 
understand,  through  the  Baron  de  ISTucingen,  that  this  organ 
was  ready  to  give  a  silent  adhesion  to  the  Government,  on 
the  one  condition  that  the  Government  should  support  du  Til- 
let's  candidature  as  successor  to  M.  de  Nucingen,  who  would 
be  a  peer  some  day,  and  who  at  present  sat  for  a  rotten  bor- 
ough, where  the  paper  was  lavishly  circulated,  gratis.  Thus 
was  Eaoul  jockeyed  by  both  the  banker  and  the  barrister, 
who  took  a  huge  delight  in  seeing  him  lord  it  at  the  office, 
pocketing  all  the  gains,  as  well  as  the  less  substantial  dues 
of  vanity  and  the  like.  Nathan  could  not  praise  them  enough ; 
again,  as  when  they  furnished  his  stables,  they  were  "the  best 
fellows  in  the  world,"  and  he  actually  believed  that  he  was 
duping  them. 

Men  of  imagination,  whose  whole  life  is  based  on  hope, 
never  will  admit  that  in  business  the  moment  of  danger  is 
that  when  everything  goes  to  a  wish.  Such  a  moment  of 
triumph  had  come  for  Nathan,  and  he  made  full  use  of  it, 
letting  himself  be  seen  both  in  political  and  financial  circles. 
Du  Tillet  introduced  him  to  the  Nucingens,  and  he  was  re- 
ceived in  a  most  friendly  way  by  Mme.  de  Nucingen,  not 
so  much  for  his  own  sake  as  for  that  of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 
Yet,  when  she  alluded  to  the  Countess,  Nathan  thought  him- 
self a  marvel  of  discretion  for  taking  refuge  behind  Florine, 
and  he  enlarged  with  generous  self-complacency  on  his  rela- 
tions with  the  actress,  which  nothing,  he  declared,  could 
break.  How  could  any  man  abandon  an  assured  happiness 
for  the  coquetry  of  the  Faubourg  S aint- Germain  ? 

Nathan,  beguiled  by  Nucingen  and  Eastignac,  du  Tillet 

id  Blondet,  lent  an  ostentatious  support  to  the  doctrinaire 


86  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

\ 

party  in  the  formation  of  one  of  their  ephemeral  cabinets. 
At  the  same  time,  wishing  to  start  in  public  life  with  clean 
hands,  he  refused,  with  much  parade,  to  accept  any  share  in 
the  profits  of  certain  enterprises,  which  had  been  launched 
by  the  help  of  this  paper.  And  this  was  the  man  who  never 
hesitated  to  -compromise  a  friend,  or  was  hampered  by  a 
scruple  in  his  relations  with  a  certain  class  of  business  men 
at  critical  moments  !  Such  startling  contrasts,  born  of  vanity 
and  ambition,  may  often  be  found  in  careers  like  his.  The 
mantle  must  make  a  brave  show  to  the  public,  but  scraps 
raised  from  a  friend  will  serve  to  patch  it. 

But  in  the  very  midst  of  all  his  successes,  Nathan  was 
roused  to  some  uneasiness  by  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  which 
he  spent  over  his  business  accounts  two  months  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  Countess.  Du  Tillet  had  advanced  a  hundred 
thousand  francs.  The  money  given  by  Florine,  the  third 
part  of  his  original  capital,  had  gone  in  government  dues 
and  in  the  expenses  of  starting  the  paper,  which  were  enor- 
mous. The  future  had  to  be  provided  for.  The  banker  as- 
sisted him  by  accepting  bills  for  fifty  thousand  francs  at 
four  months,  and  thereby  fastened  a  halter  round  the  author's 
neck.  Thanks  to  this  subvention,  the  paper  was  in  funds 
again  for  six  months.  In  the  eyes  of  many  literary  men, 
six  months  is  an  eternity.  Further,  by  dint  of  puffs  and  by 
sending  round  canvassers,  who  offered  illusory  advantages 
to  subscribers,  they  managed  to  raise  the  circulation  by  two 
thousand.  This  semi-triumph  was  an  incentive  to  cast  his 
latest  borrowings  into  the  melting-pot.  One  more  effort  of 
his  wits,  and  a  political  lawsuit  or  a  sham  persecution  might 
give  Raoul  a  place  among  those  modern  Condottieri,  whose 
ink  has  to-day  taken  the  place  of  gunpowder. 

Unfortunately,  these  steps  were  already  taken  when  Florine 
returned  with  about  fifty  thousand  francs.  Instead  of  set- 
ting this  aside  as  a  reserve,  Raouly  confident  of  a  success 
which  was  his  only  safety,  humiliated  at  the  thought  of 
having  once  before  accepted  money  from  the  actress,  feeling 
that  his  love  had  raised  him  to  a  higher  plane,  and  dazzled 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  87 

by  the  specious  plaudits  of  his  flatterers,  deceived  Florine 
as  to  his  situation,  and  obliged  her  to  spend  the  money  in 
setting  up  house  again.  Under  present  circumstances,  a 
smart  and  dashing  style  was,  he  assured  her,  essential.  The 
actress,  who  needed  no  spurring,  got  into  debt  for  thirty  thou- 
sand francs.  Instead  of  a  flat,  Florine  took  a  charming 
house  in  the  Rue  Pigalle,  where  her  old  friends  came  about 
her  again.  The  house  of  a  woman  in  Florine's  position 
supplied  a  neutral  ground,  most  convenient  for  pushing  poli- 
ticians, who,  following  the  example  of  Louis  XIV.  with  the 
Dutch,  entertained  at  Raoul's  house  in  Raoul's  absence. 

Nathan  had  reserved  for  the  return  of  the  actress  a  play, 
the  chief  part  in  which  suited  her  admirably.  This  vaude- 
ville-drama was  intended  as  Raoul's  farewell  to  the  theatre. 
The  newspapers,  by  an  attention  to  Raoul  which  cost  them 
nothing,  planned  beforehand  such  an  ovation  to  Florine  that 
the  Comedie-Frangaise  began  to  speak  of  engaging  her. 
Critics  pointed  to  her  as  the  direct  successor  of  Mile.  Mars. 
This  triumph  threw  the  actress  so  far  off  her  balance  as  to 
prevent  her  examining  carefully  the  state  of  Nathan's  affairs ; 
her  life  was  a  whirl  of  banquets  and  revelry.  Queen  in  a 
world  of  bustling  suitors,  each  with  something  to  push — a 
book,  a  play,  a  ballet-girl,  a  theatre,  a  company,  or  an  ad- 
vertisement— she  reveled  in  the  delights  of  this  press  in- 
fluence, which  she  pictured  as  the  dawn  of  ministerial  pa- 
tronage. In  the  mouths  of  those  who  frequented  her  house, 
Nathan  was  a  politician  of  high  standing.  His  scheme  would 
succeed,  he  would  be  elected  to  the  Chamber,  and  beyond 
doubt  have  a  turn  at  office,  like  so  many  others.  Actresses 
are  rarely  slow  to  believe  what  flatters  their  hopes.  How 
could  Florine,  lauded  in  the  notices,  mistrust  the  paper  or 
its  contributors?  She  was  too  ignorant  of  the  mechanism 
of  the  press  to  be  uneasy  about  its  resources,  and  women  of 
her  stamp  look  only  to  results. 

As  for  Nathan,  he  no  longer  doubted  that  in  the  course 
of  the  next  session  he  would  come  to  the  front,  along  with 
two  former  journalists,  one  of  whom,  already  in  office,,  was 


88  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

anxious  to  strengthen  his  position  by  turning  out  his  col- 
leagues. After  six  months  of  absence,  Nathan  was  glad  to 
see  Florine  again,  and  lazily  fell  back  into  his  old  habits. 
The  coarse  web  of  his  life  was  covertly  embroidered  by  him 
with  the  loveliest  flowers  of  his  ideal  passion  and  with  the 
pleasures  scattered  by  Florine.  His  letters  to  Marie  were 
masterpieces  of  love,  elegance,  and  style.  He  made  of  her 
the  guiding-star  of  his  life;  he  undertook  nothing  without 
consulting  his  good  genius.  Miserable  at  being  on  the  popular 
side,  he  was  tempted  at  times  to  join  the  aristocrats;  but, 
with  all  his  skill  in  turning  his  back  on  himself,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  make  the  leap  from  left  to  right;  it  was  easier 
to  get  office. 

Marie's  precious  letters  were  kept  in  a  portfolio  with  secret 
springs,  an  invention  either  of  Huret  or  Fichet,  the  two 
mechanists  who  carry  on  a  war  of  emulation  in  the  news- 
paper columns  and  on  the  walls  of  Paris  as  to  the  compara- 
tive efficacy  and  unobtrusiveness  of  their  locks.  The  port- 
folio lay  in  Florine's  new  boudoir,  where  Eaoul  worked.  No 
one  is  more  easily  deceived  than  the  woman  who  is  used  to 
frankness ;  she  has  no  suspicions,  because  she  believes  herself 
to  know  and  see  all  that  goes  on.  Moreover,  since  her  re- 
turn the  actress  took  her  part  in  Nathan's  daily  life,  which 
appeared  to  go  on  just  as  usual.  It  never  would  have  oc- 
curred to  her  that  this  writing-case,  which  she  had  barely 
noticed,  and  which  Eaoul  made  no  mystery  about  locking, 
contained  love  tokens  in  the  shape  of  a  rival's  letters,  ad- 
dressed, at  Kaoul's  request,  to  the  office.  To  all  appearance, 
therefore,  Nathan's  situation  was  of  the  brightest.  He  had 
plenty  of  nominal  friends.  Two  plays,  at  which  he  had 
worked  jointly  with  others,  and  which  had  just  made  a  suc- 
cess, kept  him  in  luxuries  and  removed  all  anxiety  for  the 
future.  Indeed,  his  debt  to  his  friend  du  Tillet  never  gave 
him  a  moment's  uneasiness. 

"How  can  one  suspect  a  friend?"  he  said,  when  now  and 
again  Blondet  would  give  utterance  to  doubts,  which  were 
natural  to  his  analytic  turn  of  mind. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  89 

*T3ut  we  have  no  need  to  fear  our  enemies,"  said  Florine. 

Nathan  stood  up  for  du  Tillet.  Du  Tillet  was  the  best, 
most  good-natured,  and  most  honorable  of  men. 

This  life  upon  the  tight-rope,  without  even  a  steadying- 
pole,  which  might  have  appalled  a  mere  onlooker  who  had 
grasped  its  meaning,  was  watched  by  du  Tillet  with  the 
stoicism  and  hard-heartedness  of  a  parvenu.  At  times  a 
fierce  irony  broke  through  the  genial  cordiality  of  his  man- 
ner with  Nathan.  One  day  he  pressed  his  hand  as  he  was 
leaving  Florine's,  and  watched  him  get  into  his  cabriolet. 

"There  goes  our  dandy  off  to  the  Bois  in  tiptop  style,"  he 
said  to  Lousteau,  the  very  incarnation  of  envy,  "and  in  six 
months  he  may  be  laid  by  the  heels  in  Clichy." 

"Not  he !"  exclaimed  Lousteau ;  "think  of  Florine." 

"And  how  do  you  know,  jny  good  fellow,  that  he'll  keep 
Florine?  1  tell  you,  you're  worth  a  thousand  of  him,  and 
I  expect  six  months  will  see  you  in  the  editorial  chair." 

In  October  the  bills  fell  due,  and  du  Tillet  graciously  re- 
newed them,  but  this  time  for  two  months  only,  and  the 
amount  was  increased  by  the  discount  and  by  a  new  loan. 
Confident  of  victory,  Eaoul  drained  his  till.  An  overmaster- 
ing desire  to  see  him  was  bringing  the  Countess  back  to 
town  a  month  earlier  than  usual — within  a  few  days  in  fact 
— and  it  would  not  do  to  be  crippled  for  lack  of  funds  when 
the  moment  had  come  for  entering  the  field  again. 

The  pen  is  always  bolder  than  the  tongue,  and  the  letters 
she  received  had  raised  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  excitement.  Thoughts  clothed  in  the  flowers 
of  rhetoric  can  express  so  much  without  meeting  a  repulse. 
She  saw  in  Baoul  one  of  the  finest  intellects  of  the  day,  a 
delicately-strung  and  unappreciated  heart,  which  in  its  un- 
stained purity  was  worthy  of  adoration.  She  watched  him 
put  forth  a  bold  hand  upon  the  citadel  of  power.  Ere  long 
that  voice,  so  tuneful  in  love,  would  thunder  from  the  tribune. 
Marie  was  not  entirely  absorbed  in  •  that  life  of  intersect- 
ing circles,  which  resemble  the  orbits  of  the  planets,  and  re- 
volve round  the  sun  of  society  as  their  centre.  Finding  no 


00  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

flavor  in  the  calm  pleasures  of  home,  she  received  the  shock 
of  every  agitation  in  this  whirling  life,  brought  home  to 
her  by  the  pen  of  a  literary  artist  and  a  lover.  She  showered 
kisses  on  letters  which  had  been  written  in  the  thick  of  press 
combats,  or  purloined  from  hours  of  study.  She  realized 
now  what  they  had  cost  and  was  well  assured  of  being  his 
only  love,  with  no  rivals  but  glory  and  ambition.  Even  in 
the  depths  of  her  solitude  she  found  occupation  for  all  her 
powers,  and  could  dwell  with  satisfaction  upon  the  choice 
of  her  heart.  There  was  no  one  like  Nathan. 

Fortunately,,  her  withdrawal  into  the  country  and  the 
barriers  thus  placed  between  her  and  Raoul  had  silenced 
ill-natured  gossip.  During  the  last  days  of  autumn,  there- 
fore, Marie  and  Raoul  were  able  once  more  to  begin  their 
walks  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  their  only  meeting-place  until 
the  season  opened.  Raoul  had  now  a  little  more  leisure  to 
enjoy  the  exquisite  delights  of  his  ideal  life,  and  also  to  prac- 
tise concealment  with  Florine;  his  work  at  the  office  had 
ceased  to  be  so  hard  since  things  were  well  in  train  there  and 
each  member  of  the  staff  understood  his  duty.  Involuntarily 
he  made  comparisons  which,  though  always  favorable  to 
Florine,  did  the  Countess  no  injury.  Exhausted  once  more 
by  the  various  shifts  to  which  his  passion,  alike  of  the  head 
and  of  the  heart,,  for  a  woman  of  fashion  impelled  him, 
Raoul  put  forth  superhuman  energy  in  the  effort  to  appear 
simultaneously  on  three  different  stages — society,  the  office, 
and  the  greenroom.  While  Florine,  always  grateful  and 
taking  almost  a  partner's  share  in  his  work  and  difficulties, 
appeared  and  vanished  as  required,  and  showered  on  him  a 
wealth  of  substantial  and  unpretentious  happiness,  which 
called  forth  no  remorse,  the  unapproachable  Countess,  with 
her  hungry  eyes,  had  already  forgotten  his  stupendous  labors 
and  the  trouble  it  often  cost  him  to  get  a  passing  glimpse 
of  her.  Florine,  far  from  trying  to  impose  her  will,  would 
let  herself  be  taken  up  and  put  down  with  the  good-natured 
indifference  of  a  cat,  which  always  falls  on  its  feet  and  walks 
off,  shaking  its  ears.  This  easy  way  of  life  is  admirably 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  91 

fitted  to  the  habits  of  brain- workers ;  and  it  is  only  in  the 
artist's  nature  to  take  full  advantage  of  it,  as  Nathan  did, 
whilst  not  abandoning  the  pursuit  of  that  fine  ideal  love, 
that  splendid  passion,  which  delighted  at  once  his  poetic  in- 
stincts, the  germ  of  greatness  in  him,  and  his  social  am- 
bitions. Fully  aware  how  disastrous  would  be  the  effect  of 
any  indiscretion,  he  told  himself  it  was  impossible  that  either 
the  Countess  or  Florine  should  find  out  anything.  The  chasm 
between  them  was  too  great. 

With  the  beginning  of  winter  Raoul  once  more  made  his 
appearance  in  society,  and  this  time  in  the  heyday  of  his 
glory :  he  was  all  but  a  personage.  Rastignac,  who  had  fallen 
with  the  Government  which  went  to  pieces  on  de  Marsay's 
death,  leant  upon  Raoul,  and  in  return  gave  him  the  support 
of  his  good  word.  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  was  curious  to  know 
whether  her  husband  had  changed  his  opinion  of  Raoul. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  year  she  questioned  him  again,  in  the 
expectation  of  a  signal  revenge,  such  as  the  noblest  and  least 
earthly  of  women  do  not  disdain;  for  we  may  be  sure  that 
the  angels  in  heaven  have  not  lost  all  thought  of  self  as  they 
range  themselves  round  the  throne. 

"That  he  should  become  the  tool  of  unscrupulous  men 
was  the  one  thing  lacking  to  him,"  replied  the  Count. 

Felix,  with  the  keen  insight  .of  a  politician  and  a  man  of 
the  world,  had  thoroughly  gauged  Raoul's  position.  He 
calmly  explained  to  his  wife  how  the  attempt  of  Fieschi  had 
resulted  in  rallying  many  lukewarm  people  round  the  in- 
terests threatened  in  the  person  of  Louis-Philippe.  The 
comparatively  neutral  papers  would  go  down  in  circulation 
as  journalism,  along  with  politics,  fell  into  more  definite 
lines.  If  Nathan  had  put  his  capital  into  his  paper,  he 
would  soon  be  done  for.  This  summary />f  the  situation,  so 
clear  and  accurate  in  spite  of  its  brevity  and  the  purely  ab- 
stract point  of  view  from  which  it  was  made,  and  coming 
from  a  man  well  used  to  calculate  the  chances  of  party, 
frightened  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 

"Do  you  take  much  interest  in  him  then?"  asked  Felix  of 
his  wife. 


92  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"Oh !  I  like  his  humor,  and  he  talks  well." 

The  reply  came  so  naturally  that  it  did  not  rouse  the 
Count's  suspicions. 

At  four  o'clock  next  day  at  Mme.  d'Espard's,  Marie  and 
Kaoul  held  a  long  whispered  conversation.  The  Countess 
gave  expression  to  fears  which  Raoul  dissipated,  only  too  glad 
of  this  opportunity  to  damage  the  husband's  authority  under 
a  battery  of  epigrams.  He  had  his  revenge  to  take.  The 
Count,  thus  handled,  appeared  a  man  of  narrow  mind  and  be- 
hind the  day,  who  judged  the  Revolution  of  July  by  the 
standard  of  the  Restoration,  and  shut  his  eyes  to  the  triumph 
of  the  middle-class,  that  new  and  substantial  factor  to  be 
reckoned  with,  for  a  time  at  least  if  not  permanently,  in 
every  society.  The  great  feudal  lords  of  the  past  were  im- 
possible now,  the  reign  of  true  merit  had  begun.  Instead 
of  weighing  well  the  indirect  and  impartial  warning  he  had 
received  from  an  experienced  politician  in  the  expression 
of  his  deliberate  opinion,  Raoul  made  it  an  occasion  for  dis- 
play, mounted  his  stilts,  and  draped  himself  in  the  purple 
of  success.  Where  is  the  woman  who  would  not  believe  her 
lover  rather  than  her  husband  ? 

Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  reassured,  plunged  once  more  into 
that  life  of  repressed  irritation,  of  little  stolen  pleasures,  and 
of  covert  hand-pressings  which  had  carried  her  through  the 
preceding  winter;  but  which  can  have  no  other  end  than  to 
drag  a  woman  over  the  boundary  line  if  the  man  she  loves 
has  any  spirit  and  chafes  against  the  curb.  Happily  for 
her,  Raoul,  kept  in  check  by  Florine,  was  not  dangerous.  He 
was  engrossed,  too,  in  business  which  did  not  allow  him  to 
turn  his  good  fortune  to  account.  Nevertheless,  some  sudden 
disaster,  a  renewal  of  difficulties,  an  outburst  of  impatience, 
might  at  any  mome/it  precipitate  the  Countess  into  the  abyss. 
Raoul  was  becoming  conscious  of  this  disposition  in  Marie 
when,  towards  the  end  of  December,  du  Tillet  asked  for 
his  money.  The  wealthy  banker  told  Raoul  he  was  hard  up, 
and  advised  him  to  borrow  the  amount  for  a  fortnight  from 
a  money-lender  called  Gigonnet — a  twenty-five  per  cent 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  93 

Providence  for  all  young  men  in  difficulties.  In  a  few  days 
the  paper  would  make  a  fresh  financial  start  with  the  new 
year,  there  would  be  cash  in  the  counting-house,  and  then  du 
Tillet  would  see  what  he  could  do.  Besides,  why  should  not 
Nathan  write  another  play?  Nathan  was  too  proud  not  to 
resolve  on  paying  at  any  cost.  Du  Tillet  gave  him  a  letter 
for  the  money-lender,  in  response  to  which  Gigonnet  handed 
him  the  amount  required  and  took  bills  payable  in  twenty 
days.  Raoul,  instead  of  having  his  suspicions  roused  by  this 
accommodating  reception,  was  only  vexed  that  he  had  not 
asked  for  more.  This  is  the  way  with  men  of  the  greatest  in- 
tellectual power;  they  see  only  matter  for  pleasantry  in  a 
grave  predicament,  and  reserve  their  wits  for  writing  books,  as 
though  afraid  there  might  not  be  enough  of  them  to  go 
round  if  applied  to  daily  life.  Eaoul  told  Florine  and  Blon- 
det  how  he  had  spent  his  morning ;  he  drew  a  faithful  picture 
of  Gigonnet  and  his  surroundings,  his  cheap  fleur-de-lys  wall- 
paper, his  staircase,  his  asthmatic  bell,  his  stag-foot  knocker, 
his  worn  little  door  mat,  his  hearth  as  devoid  of  fire  as  his 
eye;  he  made  them  laugh  at  his  new  "uncle,"  and  neither 
du  Tillet's  professed  need  of  money  nor  the  facility  of  the 
usurer  caused  them  the  least  uneasiness. — One  can't  account 
for  every  whim ! 

"He  has  only  taken  fifteen  per  cent  from  you,"  said  Blon- 
det;  "he  deserves  your  thanks.  At  twenty-five  they  cease 
to  be  gentlemen;  at  fifty,  usury  begins;  at  this  figure  they 
are  only  contemptible !" 

"Contemptible!"  cried  Florine.  "I  should  like  to  know 
which  of  your  friends  would  lend  you  money  at  this  rate 
without  posing  as  a  benefactor?" 

"She  is  quite  right;  I  am  heartily  glad  to  be  quit  of  du 
Tillet's  debt,"  said  Eaoul. 

Most  mysterious  is  this  lack  of  penetration  in  regard  to 
their  private  affairs  on  the  part  of  men  generally  so  keen- 
sighted  !  It  may  be  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  mind  to  be 
fully  equipped  on  every  side ;  it  may  be  that  artists  live  too 
entirely  in  the  present  to  trouble  about  the  future ;  or  it  may 


04  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

be  that,  always  on  the  lookout  for  the  ridiculous,  they  are 
blind  to  traps,  and  cannot  believe  in  any  one  daring  to  fool 
them. 

The  end  did  not  tarry.  Twenty  days  later  the  bills  were 
protested;  but  in  the  court  Florine  had  a  respite  of  twenty- 
five  days  applied  for  and  granted.  Eaoul  made  an  effort 
to  see  where  he  stood ;  he  sent  for  the  books ;  and  from  these 
it  appeared  that  the  receipts  of  the  paper  covered  two- 
thirds  of  the  cost,  and  that  the  circulation  was  going  down. 
The  great  man  became  uneasy  and  gloomy,  but  only  in  the 
company  of  Florine,  in  whom  he  confided.  Florine  advised 
him  to  borrow  on  the  security  of  plays  not  yet  written,  sell- 
ing them  in  a  lump,  and  parting  at  the  same  time  with  the 
royalties  on  his  acted  plays.  By  this  means  Nathan  raised 
twenty  thousand  francs,  and  reduced  his  debt  to  forty  thou- 
sand. 

On  the  10th  of  February  the  twenty-five  days  expired. 
Du  Tillet,  determined  to  oust  Nathan,  as  a  rival,  from  the 
constituency,  where  he  intended  to  stand  himself  (leaving 
to  Massol  another  which  was  in  the  pocket  of  the  Govern- 
ment), got  Gigonnet  to  refuse  Raoul  all  quarter.  A  man 
laid  by  the  heels  for  debt  can  hardly  present  himself  as  a 
candidate;  and  the  embryo  minister  might  disappear  in  the 
maw  of  a  debtor's  prison.  Florine  herself  was  in  constant 
communication  with  the  bailiffs  on  account  of  her  own  debts, 
and  in  this  crisis  the  only  resource  left  to  her  was  the  "I !" 
of  Medea,  for  her  furniture  was  seized.  The  aspirant  to 
fame  heard  on  every  side  the  crack  of  ruin  in  his  freshly 
reared  but  baseless  fabric.  Unequal  to  the  task  of  sustain- 
ing so  vast  an  enterprise,  how  could  he  think  of  beginning 
again  to  lay  the  foundations?  Nothing  remained,  therefore, 
but  to  perish  beneath  his  crumbling  visions.  His  love  for 
the  Countess  still  brought  flashes  of  life,  but  only  to  the 
outer  mask;  within,  all  hope  was  dead.  He  did  not  suspect 
du  Tillet ;  the  usurer  alone  filled  his  view.  Eastignac,  Blon- 
det,  Lousteau,  Vernou,  Finot,  Massol,  carefully  refrained 
from  enlightening  a  man  of  such  dangerous  energy.  Has- 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  95 

tignac,  who  aimed  at  getting  back  to  power,  made  common 
cause  with  Nucingen  and  du  Tillet.  The  rest  found  measure- 
less delight  in  watching  the  expiring  agony  of  one  of  their 
comrades,  convicted  of  the  crime  of  aiming  at  mastery.  Not 
one  of  them  would  breathe  a  word  to  Florine ;  to  her.  on  the 
contrary,  they  were  full  of  Eaoul's  praises.  "Nathan's 
shoulders  were  broad  enough  to  bear  the  world;  he  would 
come  out  all  right,  no  fear !" 

"The  circulation  went  up  two  yesterday,"  said  Blondet 
solemnly.  "Baoul  will  be  elected  yet.  As  soon  as  the  budget 
is  through  the  dissolution  will  be  announced." 

Nathan,  dogged  by  the  law,  could  no  longer  look  to  money- 
lenders; Florine,  her  furniture  distrained,  had  no  hope  left 
save  in  the  chance  of  inspiring  a  passion  in  some  good-natured 
fool,  who  never  turns  up  at  the  right  moment.  Nathan's 
friends  were  all  men  without  money  or  credit.  His  political 
chances  would  be  ruined  by  his  arrest.  To  crown  all,  he 
saw  himself  pledged  to  huge  tasks,  paid  for  in  advance;  it 
was  a  bottomless  pit  of  horrors  into  which  he  gazed. 

Before  an  outlook  so  threatening  his  self-confidence  de- 
serted him.  Would  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  unite  her 
fate  to  his  and  fly  with  him  ?  Only  a  fully  developed  passion 
can  bring  a  woman  to  this  fatal  step,  and  theirs  had  never 
bound  them  to  each  other  in  the  mysterious  ties  of  rapture. 
Even  supposing  the  Countess  would  follow  him  abroad,  she 
would  come  penniless,  bare,  and  stripped,  and  would  prove 
an  added  burden.  A  proud  man,  of  second-rate  quality, 
like  Nathan,  could  not  fail  to  see  in  suicide,  as  Nathan  did, 
the  sword  with  which  to  cut  this  Gordian  knot.  The  idea 
of  overthrow,  in  full  view  of  that  society  into  which  he  had 
worked  his  way,  and  which  he  had  aspired  to  dominate,  of 
leaving  the  Countess  enthroned  there,  while  he  fell  back  to 
join  the  mud-spattered  rank  and  file,  was  unbearable.  Mad- 
ness danced  and  rang  her  bells  before  the  door  of  that  airy 
palace  in  which  the  poet  had  made  his  home.  In  this  ex- 
tremity, Nathan  waited  tipor.  chance,  and  put  off  killing  him- 
self till  the  last  moment. 


96  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

During  the  last  days,  occupied  with  the  notice  of  judg- 
ment, the  writs,  and  publication  of  order  of  arrest,  Eaoul 
could  not  succeed  in  throwing  off  that  coldly  sinister  look, 
observed  by  noticing  people  to  haunt  those  marked  out  for 
suicide,  or  whose  minds  are  dwelling  on  it.  The  dismal  ideas 
which  they  fondle  cast  a  gray,  gloomy  shade  over  the  fore- 
head; their  smile  is  vaguely  ominous,  and  they  move  with 
solemnity.  The  unhappy  wretches  seem  resolved  to  suck 
dry  the  golden  fruit  of  life;  they  cast  appealing  glances  on 
every  side,  the  toll  of  the  passing  bell  is  in  their  ears,  and 
their  minds  wander.  These  alarming  symptoms  were  per- 
ceived by  Marie  one  night  at  Lady  Dudley's.  Eaoul  had  re- 
mained alone  on  a  sofa  in  the  boudoir,  while  the  rest  of  the 
company  were  conversing  in  the  drawing-room;  when  the 
Countess  came  to  the  door,  he  did  riot  raise  his  head;  he 
heard  neither  Marie's  breath  nor  the  rustle  of  her  silk  dress ; 
his  eyes,  stupid  with  pain,  were  fixed  on  a  flower  in  the  car- 
pet. "Sooner  die  than  abdicate,"  was  his  thought.  It  is  not 
every  man  who  has  a  Saint-Helena  to  retire  upon.  Suicide, 
moreover,  was  at  that  time  in  vogue  in  Paris :  what  more 
suitable  key  to  the  mystery  of  life  for  a  sceptical  society? 
Eaoui  then  had  just  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  himself.  De- 
spair must  be  proportioned  to  hope,  and  that  of  Eaoul  could 
find  no  issue  but  the  grave. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Marie,  flying  to  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied. 

Lovers  have  a  way  of  using  this  word  "nothing"  which 
implies  exactly  the  opposite.  Marie  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"What  a  child  you  are!"  she  said.  "Something  has  gone 
wrong  with  you?" 

"Not  with  me,"  he  said.  "Besides,"  he  added  affection- 
ately, "you  will  know  it  all  too  soon,  Marie." 

"What  were  you  thinking  of  when  I  came  in?". she  said, 
with  an  air  that  would  not  be  denied. 

"Are  you  determined  to  know  the  truth?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you ;  I  said  to  myself  that  many  men 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  97 

in  my  place  would  have  wished  to  be  loved  without  reserve : 
I  am  loved,  am  I  not?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Braving  the  risk  of  interruption,  Raoul  put  his  arm  round 
her,  and  drew  her  near  enough  to  kiss  her  on  the  forehead, 
as  he  continued : 

"And  I  am  leaving  you  pure  and  free  from  remorse.  I 
might  drag  you  into  the  abyss,  but  you  stand  upon  the  brink 
in  all  your  stainless  glory.  One  thought,  though,  haunts 
me  .  .  ." 

"What  thought?" 

"You  will  despise  me." 

She  smiled  a  proud  smile. 

"Yes,  you  will  never  believe  in  the  holiness  of  my  love  for 
you ;  and  then  they  will  slander  me,  I  know.  No  woman  can 
conceive  how,  from  out  of  the  filth  in  which  we  wallow,  we 
raise  our  eyes  to  heaven  in  single-hearted  worship  of  some 
radiant  star — some  Marie.  They  mix  up  this  adoration  with 
painful  questions;  they  cannot  understand  that  men  of  high 
intellect  and  poetic  vision  are  able  to  wean  their  souls  from 
pleasure  and  keep  them  to  lay  entire  upon  some  cherished 
altar.  And  yet,  Marie,  our  devotion  to  the  ideal  is  more 
ardent  than  yours ;  we  embody  it  in  a  woman,  while  she  does 
not  even  seek  for  it  in  us." 

"Why  this  effusion?"  she  said,  with  the  irony  of  a  woman 
who  has  no  misgivings. 

"I  am  leaving  France;  you  will  learn  how  and  why  to- 
morrow from  a  letter  which  my  servant  will  bring  you.  Fare- 
well, Marie." 

Eaoul  went  out,  after  pressing  the  Countess  to  his  heart 
in  an  agonized  embrace,  and  left  her  dazed  with  misery. 

"What  is  wrong,  dear?"  said  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  com- 
ing to  look  f 01  her.  "What  has  M.  Nathan  been  saying  ?  He 
left  us  with  quite  a  melodramatic  air.  You  must  have  been 
terribly  foolish — or  terribly  prudent." 

The  Countess  took  Mme.  d'Espard's  arm  to  return  to  the 


96  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

drawing-room,  where,  however,  she  only  stayed  a  few  in- 
stants. 

"Perhaps  she  is  going  to  her  first  appointment/'  said  Lady 
Dudley  to  the  Marchioness. 

"I  shall  make  sure  as  to  that,"  replied  Mme.  d'Espard,  who 
left  at  once  to  follow  the  Countess'  carriage. 

But  the  coupe  of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  took  the  road  to  the 
Faubourg  St.  Honore.  When  Mme.  d'Espard  entered  her 
house,  she  saw  the  Countess  driving  along  the  Faubourg  in 
the  direction  of  the  Rue  du  Rocher.  Marie  went  to  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep,  and  spent  the  night  in  reading  a  voyage  to  the 
North  Pole,  of  which  she  did  not  take  in  a  word. 

At  half-past  eight  next  morning,  she  got  a  letter  from 
Raoul  and  opened  it  in  feverish  haste.  The  letter  began 
with  the  classic  phrase : 

"My  loved  one,  when  this  paper  is  in  your  hands,  I  shall 
be  no  more." 

She  read  no  further,  but  crushing  the  paper  with  a  nervous 
motion,  rang  for  her  maid,  hastily  put  on  a  loose  gown,  and 
the  first  pair  of  shoes  that  came  to  hand,  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  her,  took  a  bonnet,  and  then  went  out,  instructing 
her  maid  to  tell  the  Count  that  she  had  gone  to  her  sister, 
Mme.  du  Tillet. 

"Where  did  you  leave  your  master?"  she  asked  of  Raoul's 
servant. 

"At  the  newspaper  office." 

"Take  me  there,"  she  said. 

To  the  amazement  of  the  household,  she  left  the  house  on 
foot  before  nine  o'clock,  visibly  distraught.  Fortunately  for 
her,  the  maid  went  to  tell  the  Count  that  her  mistress  had 
just  received  a  letter  from  Mme.  du  Tillet  which  had  upset 
her  very  much,  and  that  she  had  started  in  a  great  hurry 
for  her  sister's  house,  accompanied  by  the  servant  who  had 
brought  the  letter.  Vandenesse  waited  for  further  explana- 
tions till  his  wife's  return.  The  Countess  got  a  cab  and  was 
borne  rapidly  to  the  office.  At  that  time  of  day  the  spacious 
rooms  occupied  by  the  paper,  in  an  old  house  in  the  Rue 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  99 

Feydeau,  were  deserted.  The  only  occupant  was  an  at- 
tendant, whose  astonishment  was  great  when  a  pretty  and 
distracted  young  woman  rushed  up  and  demanded  M. 
Nathan. 

"I  expect  he  is  with  Mile.  Florine,"  he  replied,  taking  the 
Countess  for  some  jealous  rival,  bent  on  making  a  scene. 

"Where  does  he  work?"  she  asked. 

"In  a  small  room,  the  key  of  which  is  in  his  pocket." 

"I  must  go  there." 

The  man  led  her  to  a  dark  room,  looking  out  on  a  back- 
yard, which  had  formerly  been  the  dressing-closet  attached  to 
a  large  bedroom.  This  closet  made  an  angle  with  the  bed- 
room, in  which  the  recess  for  the  bed  still  remained.  By 
opening  the  bedroom  window,  the  Countess  was  able  to  see 
through  that  of  the  closet  what  was  happening  within. 

Nathan  lay  in  the  editorial  chair,  the  death-rattle  in  his 
throat. 

"Break  open  that  door,  and  tell  no  one!  I  will  pay  you 
to  keep  silence,"  she  cried.  "Can't  you  see  that  M.  Nathan 
is  dying  ?" 

The  man  went  to  the  compositors'  room  to  fetch  an  iron 
chase  with  which  to  force  the  door.  Raoul  was  killing  him- 
self, like  some  poor  work-girl,  with  the  fumes  from  a  pan  of 
charcoal.  He  had  just  finished  a  letter  to  Blondet,  in  which 
he  begged  him  to  attribute  his  death  to  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 
The  Countess  was  just  in  time;  she  had  Raoul  carried  into 
the  cab;  and  not  knowing  where  to  get  him  looked  after,  she 
went  to  a  hotel,  took  a  room  there,  and  sent  the  attendant 
to  fetch  a  doctor.  Raoul  in  a  few  hours  was  out  of  danger ; 
but  the  Countess  did  not  leave  his  bedside  till  she  had  ob- 
tained a  full  confession.  When  the  prostrate  wrestler  with 
fate  had  poured  into  her  heart  the  terrible  elegy  of  his  suf- 
ferings, she  returned  home  a  prey  to  all  the  torturing  fancies 
which  the  evening  before  had  brooded  over  Nathan's  brow. 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  she  had  said,  hoping  to  win  him  back 
to  life. 

"Well,  what  is  wrong  with  your  sister?"  asked  Felix,  on 
seeing  his  wife  return.  "You  look  like  a  ghost." 


100  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"It  is  a  frightful  story,  but  I  must  keep  it  an  absolute 
secret/'  she  replied,  summoning  all  her  strength  to  put  on  an 
appearance  of  composure. 

In  order  to  be  alone  and  able  to  think  in  peace,  she  went 
to  the  opera  in  the  evening,  and  thence  had  gone  on  to  un- 
bosom her  woes  to  Mme.  du  Tillet.  After  describing  the 
ghastly  scene  of  the  morning,  she  implored  her  sister's  ad- 
vice and  aid.  Neither  of  them  had  an  idea  then  that  it  was 
du  Tillet  whose  hand  had  put  the  match  to  that  vulgar  pan 
of  charcoal,  the  sight  of  which  had  so  dismayed  Mme.  de 
Vandenesse. 

"He  has  no  one  but  me  in  the  world,"  Marie  had  said  to 
her  sister,  "and  I  shall  not  fail  him." 

In  these  words  may  be  read  the  key  to  women's  hearts. 
They  become  heroic  in  the  assurance  of  being  all  in  all  to 
a  great  and  honorable  man. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Du  TILLET  had  heard  many  speculations  as  to  the  greater 
or  less  probability  of  his  sister-in-law's  love  for  Nathan; 
but  he  was  one  of  those  who  deemed  the  liaison  incompatible 
with  that  existing  between  Raoul  and  Florine,  or  who  denied 
it  on  other  grounds.  In  his  view,  either  the  actress  made  the 
Countess  impossible,  or  vice  versa.  But  when,  on  his  return 
that  evening,  he  found  his  sister-in-law,  whose  agitation  had 
been  plainly  written  on  her  face  at  the  opera,  he  surmised 
that  Raoul  had  confided  his  plight  to  the  Countess.  This 
meant  that  the  Countess  loved  him,  and  had  come  to  beg  from 
Marie-Eugenie  the  amount  due  to  old  Gigonnet.  Mme.  du 
Tillet,  at  a  loss  how  to  explain  this  apparently  miraculous 
insight,  had  betrayed  so  much  confusion,  that  du  Tillet's  sus- 
picion became  a  certainty.  The  banker  was  confident 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  101 

that  he  could  now  get  hold  of  the  clue  to  Nathan's  intrigues. 

No  one  knew  of  the  poor  wretch  who  lay  ill  in  a  private 
hotel  in  the  Rue  du  Mail,  under  the  name  of  the  attendant, 
Francois  Quillet,  to  whom  the  Countess  had  promised  five 
hundred  francs  as  the  reward  for  silence  on  the  events  of  the 
night  and  morning.  Quillet  in  consequence  had  taken  the 
precaution  of  telling  the  portress  that  Nathan  was  ill  from 
overwork.  It  was  no  surprise  to  du  Tillet  not  to  see  Nathan, 
for  it  was  only  natural  the  journalist  should  keep  in  hiding 
from  the  bailiffs.  When  the  detectives  came  to  make  in- 
quiry, they  were  told  that  a  lady  had  been  there  that  morn- 
ing and  carried  off  the  editor.  Two  days  elapsed  before 
they  had  discovered  the  number  of  the  cab,  questioned  the 
driver,  and  identified  and  explored  the  house  in  which  the 
poor  insolvent  was  coming  back  to  life.  Thus  Marie's  wary 
tactics  had  won  for  Nathan  a  respite  of  three  days. 

Each  of  the  sisters  passed  an  agitated  night.  Such  a 
tragedy  casts  a  lurid  light,  like  the  glow  of  its  own  charcoal, 
upon  the  whole  substance  of  a  life,  throwing  out  its  shoals 
and  reefs  rather  than  the  heights  which  hitherto  had  struck 
the  eye.  Mme.  du  Tillet,  overcome  by  the  frightful  spectacle 
of  a  young  man  dying  in  his  editorial  chair,  and  writing  his 
last  words  with  Eoman  stoicism,  could  think  of  nothing  but 
how  to  help  him,  how  to  restore  to  life  the  being  in  whom 
her  sister's  life  was  bound  up.  It  is  a  law  of  the  mind  to 
look  at  effects  before  analyzing  causes.  Eugenie  once  more 
approved  the  idea,  which  had  occurred  to  her,  of  applying 
to  the  Baronne  Delphine  de  Nucingen,  with  whom  she  had 
a  dining  acquaintance,  and  felt  that  it  promised  well.  With 
the  generosity  natural  to  those  whose  hearts  have  not  been 
ground  in  the  polished  mill  of  society,  Mme.  du  Tillet  de- 
termined to  take  everything  upon  herself. 

The  Countess  again,  happy  in  having  saved  Nathan's  life, 
spent  the  night  in  scheming  how  to  lay  her  hands  on  forty 
thousand  francs.  In  such  a  crisis  women  are  beyond  praise. 
Under  the  impulse  of  feeling  they  light  upon  contrivances 
which  would  excite,  if  anything  could,  the  admiration  of 


102  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

thieves,  brokers,  usurers,  those  three  more  or  less  licensed 
classes  of  men  who  live  by  their  wits.  The  Countess  would  sell 
her  diamonds  and  wear  false  ones.  Then  she  was  for  asking 
Vandenesse  to  give  her  the  money  for  her  sister,  whom  she 
had  already  used  as  a  pretext;  but  she  was  too  high-minded 
not  to  recoil  from  such  degrading  expedients,  which  occurred 
to  her  only  to  be  rejected.  To  give  Vandenesse's  money  to 
Nathan !  At  the  very  thought  she  leaped  up  in  bed,  horrified 
at  her  own  baseness.  Wear  false  diamonds !  her  husband 
would  find  out  sooner  or  later.  She  would  go  and  beg  the 
money  from  the  Eothschilds,  who  had  so  much;  from  the 
Archbishop  of  Paris,  whose  duty  it  was  to  succor  the  poor. 
Then  in  her  extremity  she  rushed  from  one  religion  to  an- 
other with  impartial  prayers.  She  lamented  being  in  op- 
position; in  old  days  she  could  have  borrowed  from  persons 
near  to  royalty.  She  thought  of  applying  to  her  father.  But 
the  ex-judge  had  a  horror  of  any  breach  of  the  law;  his 
children  had  learned  from  experience  how  little  sympathy 
he  had  with  love  troubles ;  he  refused  to  hear  of  them,  he  had 
become  a  misanthrope,  he  could  not  away  with  intrigue  of 
any  description.  As  to  the  Comtesse  de  Granville,  she  had 
gone  to  live  in  retirement  on  one  of  her  estates  in  Normandy, 
and,  icy  to  the  last,  was  ending  her  days,  pinching  and  pray- 
ing, between  priests  and  money-bags.  Even  were  there  time 
for  Marie  to  reach  Bayeax,  would  her  mother  give  her  so 
large  a  sum  without  knowing  what  it  was  wanted  for?  Im- 
aginary debts?  Yes,  possibly  her  favorite  child  might  move 
her  to  compassion.  Well,  then,  as  a  last  resource,  to  Nor- 
mandy the  Countess  would  go.  The  Comte  de  Granville 
would  not  refuse  to  give  her  a  pretext  by  sending  false  news 
of  his  wife's  serious  illness. 

The  tragedy  which  had  given  her  such  a  shock  in  the 
morning,  the  care  she  had  lavished  on  Nathan,  the  hours 
passed  by  his  bedside,  the  broken  tale,  the  agony  of  a  great 
mind,  the  career  of  genius  cut  short  by  a  vulgar  and  ignoble 
detail,  all  rushed  upon  her  memory  as  so  many  spurs  to  love. 
Once  more  she  lived  through  every  heart-throb,  and  felt  her 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  103 

love  stronger  in  the  hour  of  Nathan's  abasement  than  in  that 
of  his  success.  Would  she  have  kissed  that  forehead  crowned 
with  triumph?  Her  heart  answered:  No.  The  parting, 
words  Nathan  had  spoken  to  her  in  Lady  Dudley's  boudoir 
touched  her  unspeakably  by  their  noble  dignity.  Was  ever 
farewell  more  saintly?  What  could  be  more  heroic  than  to 
abandon  happiness  because  it  would  have  made  her  misery? 
The  Countess  had  longed  for  sensations  in  her  life,  truly  she 
had  a  wealth  of  them  now,  fearful,  agonizing,  and  yet  dear 
to  her.  Her  life  seemed  fuller  in  pain  than  it  had  ever  been 
in  pleasure.  With  what  ecstasy  she  repeated  to  herself,  "I 
have  saved  him  already,  and  I  will  save  him  again!"  She 
heard  his  cry,  "Only  the  miserable  know  the  power  of  love !" 
when  he  had  felt  his  Marie's  lips  upon  his  forehead. 

"Are  you  ill?"  asked  her  husband,  coming  into  her  room 
to  fetch  her  for  lunch. 

"I  cannot  get  over  the  tragedy  which  is  being  enacted  at  my 
sister's,"  she  said,  truthfully  enough. 

"She  has  fallen  into  bad  hands;  it's  a  disgrace  to  the 
family  to  have  a  du  Tillet  in  it,  a  worthless  fellow  like  that. 
If  your  sister  got  into  any  trouble,  she  would  find  scant  pity 
with  him." 

"What  woman  could  endure  pity  ?"  said  the  Countess,  with 
an  involuntary  shudder.  "Your  ruthless  harshness  is  the 
truest  homage." 

"There  speaks  your  noble  heart !"  said  Felix,  kissing  his 
wife's  hand,  quite  touched  by  her  fine  scorn.  "A  woman  who 
feels  like  that  does  not  need  guarding." 

"Guarding  ?"  she  answered ;  "that  again  is  another  disgrace 
which  recoils  on  you." 

Felix  smiled,  but  Marie  blushed.  When  a  woman  has 
committed  a  secret  fault,  she  cloaks  herself  in  an  exaggerated 
womanly  pride,  nor  can  we  blame  the  fraud,  which  points 
to  a  reserve  of  dignity  or  even  high-mindedness. 

Marie  wrote  a  line  to  Nathan,  under  the  name  of  M.  Quillet, 
to  tell  him  that  all  was  going  well,  and  sent  it  by  a  commis- 
sionaire to  the  Mail  Hotel.  At  the  Opera  in  the  evening  the 


104  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

Countess  reaped  the  benefit  of  her  falsehoods,  her  husband 
finding  it  quite  natural  that  she  should  leave  her  box  to  go 
and  see  her  sister.  Felix  waited  to  give  her  his  arm  till  du 
Tillet  had  left  his  wife  alone.  What  were  not  Marie's  feelings 
as  she  crossed  the  passage,  entered  her  sister's  box,  and  took 
her  seat  there,  facing  with  calm  and  serene  countenance  the 
world  of  fashion,  amazed  to  see  the  sisters  together! 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

The  reply  was  written  on  Marie-Eugenie's  face,  the  radi- 
ance of  which  many  people  ascribed  to  gratified  vanity. 

"Yes,  he  will  be  saved,  darling,  but  for  three  months  only, 
during  which  time  we  will  put  our  heads  together  and  find 
some  more  substantial  help.  Mme.  de  Nucingen  will  take 
four  bills,  each  for  ten  thousand  francs,  signed  by  any  one 
you  like,  so  as  not  to  compromise  you.  She  has  explained  to 
me  how  they  are  to  be  made  out;  I  don't  understand  in  the 
least,  but  M.  Nathan  will  get  them  ready  for  you.  Only  it 
occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  our  old  master,  Schmucke,  might 
be  useful  to  us  now ;  he  would  sign  them.  If,  in  addition  to 
these  four  securities,  you  write  a  letter  guaranteeing  their 
payment  to  Mme.  de  Nucingen,  she  will  hand  you  the  money 
to-morrow.  Do  the  whole  thing  yourself ;  don't  trust  to  any- 
body. Schmucke,  you  see,  would,  I  think,  make  no  difficulty 
if  you  asked  him.  To  disarm  suspicion,  I  said  that  you 
wanted  to  do  a  kindness  to  our  old  music-master,  a  German 
who  was  in  trouble.  In  this  way  I  was  able  to  beg  for  the 
strictest  secrecy." 

"You  angel  of  cleverness !  If  only  the  Baronne  de  Nucin- 
gen does  not  talk  till  after  she  has  given  the  money !"  said  the 
Countess,  raising  her  eyes  as  though  in  prayer,  regardless  of 
her  surroundings. 

"Schmucke  lives  in  the  little  Rue  de  Nevers,  on  the  Quai 
Conti;  don't  forget,  and  go  yourself." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  Countess,  pressing  her  sister's  hand. 
"Ah !  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life " 

"From  your  old  age " 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  105 

"To  put  an  end  to  all  these  horrors,"  said  the  Countess, 
with  a  smile  at  the  interruption. 

The  crowd  at  this  moment,  spying  the  two  sisters  through 
their  opera-glasses,  might  suppose  them  to  be  talking  of 
trivialities,  as  they  heard  the  ring  of  their  frank  laughter. 
But  any  one  of  those  idlers,  who  frequent  the  Opera  rather 
to  study  dress  and  faces  than  to  enjoy  themselves,  would  be 
able  to  detect  the  secret  of  the  Countess  in  the  wave  of 
feeling  which  suddenly  blotted  all  cheerfulness  out  of  their 
fair  faces.  Kaoul,  who  did  not  fear  the  bailiffs  at  night,  ap- 
peared, pale  and  ashy,  with  anxious  eye  and  gloomy  brow, 
on  the  step  of  the  staircase  where  he  regularly  took  his  stand. 
He  looked  for  the  Countess  in  her  box  and,  finding  it  empty, 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  balus- 
trade. 

"Can  she  be  here !"  he  thought. 

"Look  up,  unhappy  hero,"  whispered  Mme.  du  Tillet. 

As  for  Marie,  at  all  risks  she  fixed  on  him  that  steady 
magnetic  gaze,  in  which  the  will  flashes  from  the  eye,  as 
rays  of  light  from  the  sun.  Such  a  look,  mesmerizers  say, 
penetrates  to  the  person  on  whom  it  is  directed,  and  certainly 
Eaoul  seemed  as  though  struck  by  a  magic  wand.  Eaising  his 
head,  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  sisters.  With  that  charming 
feminine  readiness  which  is  never  at  fault,  Mme.  de  Vande- 
nesse  seized  a  cross,  sparkling  on  her  neck,  and  directed  his 
attention  to  it  by  a  swift  smile,  full  of  meaning.  The  brill- 
iance of  the  gem  radiated  even  upon  Raoul's  forehead,  and 
he  replied  with  a  look  of  joy ;  he  had  understood. 

"Is  it  nothing,  then,  Eugenie,"  said  the  Countess,  "thus 
to  restore  life  to  the  dead  ?" 

"You  have  a  chance  yet  with  the  Royal  Humane  Society," 
replied  Eugenie,,  with  a  smile. 

"How  wretched  and  depressed  he  looked  when  he  came, 
and  how  happy  he  will  go  away !" 

At  this  moment  du  Tillet,  coming  up  to  Raoul  with  every 
mark  of  friendliness,  pressed  his  hand,  and  said: 

"Well,  old  fellow,  how  are  you  ?" 


108  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

"As  well  as  a  man  is  likely  to  be  who  has  just  got  the  best 
possible  news  of  the  election.  I  shall  be  successful,"  replied 
Eaoul,  radiant. 

"Delighted,"  said  du  Tillet.  "We  shall  want  money  for  the 
paper." 

"The  money  will  be  found,"  said  Kaoul. 

"The  devil  is  with  these  women!"  exclaimed  du  Tillet, 
still  unconvinced  by  the  words  of  Eaoul,  whom  he  had  nick- 
named Charnathan. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Eaoul. 

"My  sister-in-law  is  there  with  my  wife,  and  they  are 
hatching  something  together.  You  seem  in  high  favor  with 
the  Countess ;  she  is  bowing  to  you  right  across  the  house." 

"Look,"  said  Mme.  du  Tillet  to  her  sister,  "they  told  us 
wrong.  See  how  my  husband  fawns  on  M.  Nathan,  and  it  is 
he  who  they  declared  was  trying  to  get  him  put  in  prison !" 

"And  men  call  us  slanderers !"  cried  the  Countess.  "I 
will  give  him  a  warning." 

She  rose,  took  the  arm  of  Vandenesse,  who  was  waiting  in 
the  passage,  and  returned  jubilant  to  her  box;  by  and  by 
she  left  the  Opera,  ordered  her  carriage  for  the  next  morning 
before  eight  o'clock,  and  found  herself  at  half-past  eight 
on  the  Quai  Conti,  having  called  at  the  Eue  du  Mail  on  her 
way. 

The  carriage  could  not  enter  the  narrow  Eue  de  Nevers; 
but,  as  Schmucke's  house  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  Quay, 
the  Countess  was  not  obliged  to  walk  to  it  through  the  mud. 
She  almost  leapt  from  the  step  of  the  carriage  on  to  the  dirty 
and  dilapidated  entrance  of  the  grimy  old  house,  which  was 
held  together  by  iron  clamps,  like  a  poor  man's  crockery,  and 
overhung  the  street  in  quite  an  alarming  fashion. 

The  old  organist  lived  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  rejoiced 
in  a  beautiful  view  of  the  Seine,  from  the  Pont  Neuf  to  the 
rising  ground  of  Chaillot.  The  simple  fellow  was  so  taken 
aback  when  the  footman  announced  his  former  pupil,  that, 
before  he  could  recover  himself,  she  was  in  the  room.  Never 
could  the  Countess  have  imagined  or  guessed  at  an  existence 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  10Y 

such  as  that  suddenly  laid  bare  to  her,  though  she  had  long 
known  Schmucke's  scorn  for  appearances  and  his  indifference 
to  worldly  things.  Who  could  have  believed  in  so  neglected 
a  life,  in  carelessness  carried  to  such  a  pitch?  Schmucke 
was  a  musical  Diogenes;  he  felt  no  shame  for  the  hugger- 
mugger  in  which  he  lived;  indeed,  custom  had  made  him  in- 
sensible to  it. 

The  constant  use  of  a  fat,  friendly,  German  pipe  had 
spread  over  the  ceiling  and  the  flimsy  wall-paper — well  rubbed 
by  the  cat — a  faint  yellow  tint,  which  gave  a  pervading  im- 
pression of  the  golden  harvests  of  Ceres.  The  cat,  whose  long 
ruffled  silky  coat  made  a  garment  such  as  a  portress  might 
have  envied,  did  the  honors  of  the  house,  sedately  whiskered, 
and  entirely  at  her  ease.  From  the  top  of  a  first-rate  Vienna 
piano,  where  she  lay  couched  in  state,  she  cast  on  the  Countess 
as  she  entered  the  gracious  yet  chilly  glance  with  which  any 
woman,  astonished  at  her  beauty,  might  have  greeted  her. 
She  did  not  stir,  except  to  wave  the  two  silvery  threads  of 
her  upright  moustache  and  to  fix  upon  Schmucke  two  golden 
eyes.  The  piano,  which  had  known  better  days,  and  was  cased 
in  a  good  wood,  painted  black  and  gold,  was  dirty,  discolored, 
chipped,  and  its  keys  were  worn  like  the  teeth  of  an  old  horse 
and  mellowed  by  the  deeper  tints  which  fell  from  the  pipe. 
Little  piles  of  ashes  on  the  ledge  proclaimed  that  the  night 
before  Schmucke  had  bestridden  the  old  instrument  to  some 
witches'  rendezvous.  The  brick  floor,  strewn  with  dried  mud, 
torn  paper,  pipe  ashes,  and  odds  and  ends  that  defy  descrip- 
tion, suggested  the  boards  of  a  lodging-house  floor,  when 
they  have  not  been  swept  for  a  week  and  heaps  of  litter,  a 
cross  between  the  contents  of  the  ash-pit  and  the  rag-bag, 
await  the  servants'  brooms.  A  more  practised  eye  than  that 
of  the  Countess  might  have  read  indications  of  Schmucke's 
way  of  living  in  the  chestnut  parings,  scraps  of  apple  peel, 
and  shells  of  Easter  eggs,  which  covered  broken  fragments 
of  plates,  all  messed  with  sauerkraut.  This  German  detritus 
formed  a  carpet  of  dusty  filth  which  grated  under  the  feet 
and  lost  itself  in  a  mass  of  cinders,  dropping  with  slow  dig- 


108  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

nity  from  a  painted  stone  fireplace,  where  a  lump  of  coal 
lorded  it  over  two  half-burnt  logs  that  seemed  to  waste  away 
before  it.  On  the  mantelpiece  was  a  pier-glass  with  figures 
dancing  a  saraband  round  it;  on  one  side  the  glorious  pipe 
hung  on  a  nail,  on  the  other  stood  a  china  pot  in  which  the 
Professor  kept  his  tobacco.  Two  armchairs,  casually  picked 
up,  together  with  a  thin,  flattened  couch,  a  worm-eaten  chest 
of  drawers  with  the  marble  top  gone,  and  a  maimed  table,  on 
which  lay  the  remains  of  a  frugal  breakfast,  made  up  the 
furniture,  unpretending  as  that  of  a  Mohican  wigwam.  A 
shaving-glass  hanging  from  the  catch  of  a  curtainless  win- 
dow, and  surmounted  by  a  rag,  striped  by  razor  scrapings, 
were  evidence  of  the  sole  sacrifices  paid  by  Schmucke  to  the 
graces  and  to  society. 

The  cat,  petted  as  a  feeble  and  dependent  being,  was  the 
best  off.  It  rejoiced  in  an  old  armchair  cushion,  beside 
which  stood  a  white  china  cup  and  dish.  But  what  no  pen 
can  describe  is  the  state  to  which  Schmucke,  the  cat,  and 
the  pipe — trinity  of  living  beings — had  reduced  the  furniture. 
The  pipe  had  scorched  the  table  in  places.  The  cat  and 
Schmucke's  head  had  greased  the  green  Utrecht  velvet  of  the 
two  armchairs  till  it  was  worn  quite  smooth.  But  for  the 
cat's  magnificent  tail,  which  did  a  part  of  the  cleaning, 
the  dust  would  have  lain  for  ever  undisturbed  on  the  un- 
covered parts  of  the  chest  of  drawers  and  piano.  In  a  corner 
lay  the  army  of  slippers,  to  which  only  a  Homeric  catalogue 
could  do  justice.  The  tops  of  the  chest  of  drawers  and  of 
the  piano  were  blocked  with  broken-backed,  loose-paged 
music-books,  the  boards  showing  all  the  pages  peeping 
through,  with  corners  white  and  dog-eared.  Along  the 
walls  the  addresses  of  pupils  were  glued  with  little  wafers. 
The  wafers  without  paper  showed  the  number  of  obsolete 
addresses.  On  the  wall-paper  chalk  additions  might  be  read. 
The  chest  of  drawers  was  adorned  with  last  night's  tankards, 
which  stood  out  quite  fresh  and  bright  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  stuffiness  and  decay.  Hygiene  was  represented  by  a  water- 
jag  crowned  with  a  towel  and  a  bit  of  common  soap,  white 


A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE  109 

marbled  with  blue,  which  left  its  damp-mark  here  and  there 
on  the  red  wood.  Two  hats,  equally  ancient,  hung  on  pegs, 
from  which  also  was  suspended  the  familiar  blue  ulster 
with  its  three  capes,  without  which  the  Countess  would  hardly 
have  known  Schmucke.  Beneath  the  window  stood  three  pots 
of  flowers,  German  flowers  presumably,  and  close  by  a  holly 
walking-stick. 

Though  the  Countess  was  disagreeably  affected  both  in 
sight  and  smell,  yet  Schmucke's  eyes  and  smile  transformed 
the  sordid  scene  with  heavenly  rays,  that  gave  a  glory  to  the 
dingy  tones  and  animation  to  the  chaos.  The  soul  of  this 
man,  who  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world  and  revealed 
so  many  of  its  mysteries,  radiated  light  like  a  sun.  His  frank 
and  hearty  laugh  at  the  sight  of  one  of  his  Saint  Cecilias 
diffused  the  brightness  of  youth,  mirth,  and  innocence.  He 
poured  out  treasures  of  that  which  mankind  holds  dearest, 
and  made  a  cloak  of  them  to  veil  his  poverty.  The  most 
purse-proud  upstart  would  perhaps  have  blushed  to  think 
twice  of  the  surroundings  within  which  moved  this  noble 
apostle  of  the  religion  of  music. 

"Eh,  py  vot  tchance  came  you  here,  tear  Montame  la  Gond- 
esse  ?"  he  said.  "Must  I  den  zing  de  zong  ov  Zimeon  at  mein 
asche  ?" 

This  idea  started  him  on  another  peal  of  ringing  laughter. 

"Is  it  dat  I  haf  a  conqvest  made?"  he  went  on,  with  a 
look  of  cunning. 

Then,  laughing  like  a  child  again : 

"You  com  for  de  musike,  not  for  a  boor  man,  I  know," 
he  said  sadly ;  "but  come  for  vat  you  vill,  you  know  dat  all  is 
here  for  you,  pody,  zoul,  ant  coots !" 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  Countess,  kissed  it,  and  dropped 
a  tear,  for  with  this  good  man  every  day  was  the  morrow 
of  a  kindness  received.  His  joy  had  for  a  moment  deprived 
him  of  memory,  only  to  bring  it  back  in  greater  force.  He 
seized  on  the  chalk,  leaped  on  the  armchair  in  front  of  the 
piano,  and  then,  with  the  alacrity  of  a  young  man,  wrote 
on  the  wall  in  large  letters,  "February  17th,  1835."  This 


110  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

movement,  so  pretty  and  artless,  came  with  such  an  outburst 
of  gratitude  that  the  Countess  was  quite  moved. 

"My  sister  is  coming  too,"  she  said. 

"De  oder  alzo !  Ven  ?  Ven  ?  May  it  pe  bevor  I  tie !"  he 
replied. 

"She  will  come  to  thank  you  for  a  great  favor  which  I 
am  here  now  to  ask  from  you  on  her  behalf." 

"Qvick ;  qvick !  qvick !  qvick !"  cried  Schmucke,  "vot  is  dis 
dat  I  mosd  to?  Mosd  I  to  de  teufel  go?" 

"I  only  want  you  to  write,  I  promise  to  pay  the  sum  of  ten 
thousand  francs  on  each  of  these  papers,"  she  said,  drawing 
from  her  muff  the  four  bills,  which  Nathan  had  prepared 
in  accordance  with  the  formula  prescribed. 

"Ach!  dat  vill  pe  soon  tone,"  replied  the  German  with  a 
lamblike  docility.  "Only,  I  know  not  vere  are  mein  bens  and 
baber. — Get  you  away,  Meinherr  Mirr,"  he  cried  to  the  cat, 
who  stared  at  him  frigidly.  "Dis  is  mein  gat,"  he  said,  point- 
ing it  out  to  the  Countess.  "Dis  is  de  boor  peast  vich  lifs  mit 
de  boor  Schmucke.  He  is  peautivul,  not  zo?" 

The  Countess  agreed. 

"You  vould  vish. him?" 

"What  an  idea  !    Take  away  your  friend !" 

The  cat,  who  was  hiding  the  ink-bottle,  divined  what 
Schmucke  wanted  and  jumped  on  to  the  bed. 

"He  is  naughty  ass  ein  monkey!"  he  went  on,  pointing 
to  it  on  the  bed.  "I  name  him  Mirr,  for  do  glorivy  our  creat 
Hoffmann  at  Berlin,  dat  I  haf  mosh  known." 

The  good  man  signed  with  the  innocence  of  a  child  doing 
its  mother's  bidding,  utterly  ignorant  what  it  is  about,  but 
sure  that  all  will  be  right.  He  was  far  more  taken  up  with 
presenting  the  cat  to  the  Countess  than  with  the  papers, 
which,  by  the  laws  relating  to  foreigners,  might  have  deprived 
him  for  ever  of  liberty. 

"You  make  me  zure  dat  dese  leetl  stambed  babers." 

"Don't  have  the  least  uneasiness,"  said  the  Countess. 

"I  haf  not  oneasiness,"  he  replied  hastily.  "I  ask  if  dese 
leetl  stambed  babers  vill  plees  do  Montame  ti  Dilet  ?" 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  111 

• 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said;  "you  will  be  helping  her  as  a  father 
might." 

"I  am  fer  habby  do  pe  coot  do  her  for  zomting.  Com,  do 
mein  music!"  he  said,  leaving  the  papers  on  the  table  and 
springing  to  the  piano. 

In  a  moment  the  hands  of  this  unworldly  being  were  flying 
over  the  well-worn  keys,  in  a  moment  his  glance  pierced  the 
roof  to  heaven,  in  a  moment  the  sweetest  of  songs  blossomed 
in  the  air  and  penetrated  the  soul.  But  only  while  the  ink 
was  drying  could  this  simple-minded  interpreter  of  heavenly 
things  be  allowed  to  draw  forth  eloquence  from  wood  and 
string,  like  Raphael's  St.  Cecilia  playing  to  the  listening 
hosts  of  heaven.  The  Countess  then  slipped  the  bills  into 
her  muff  again,  and  recalled  the  radiant  master  from  the 
ethereal  spheres  in  wriich  he  soared  by  a  touch  on  the  shoulder. 

"My  good  Schmucke,"  she  cried. 

"Zo  zoon,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  submissiveness  painful  to 
see.  "Vy  den  are  you  kom?" 

He  did  not  complain,  he  stood  like  a  faithful  dog,  waiting 
for  a  word  from  the  Countess. 

"My  good  Schmucke,"  she  again  began,  "this  is  a  question 
of  life  and  death,  minutes  now  may  be  the  price  of  blood  and 
tears." 

"Efer  de  zame !"  he  said.  "Go  den  !  try  de  tears  ov  oders ! 
Know  dat  de  poor  Schmucke  counts  your  fisit  for  more  dan 
your  pounty." 

"We  shall  meet  again,"  she  said.  "You  must  come  and 
play  to  me  and  dine  with  me  every  Sunday,  or  else  we  shall 
quarrel.  I  shall  expect  you  next  Sunday." 

"Truly?" 

"Indeed,  I  hope  you  will  come;  and  my  sister,  I  am  surev 
will  fix  a  day  for  you  also." 

"Mein  habbiness  vill  be  den  gomplete,"  he  said,  "vor  I  tid 
not  zee  you  put  at  de  Champes-Hailysees,  ven  you  passed  in 
de  carrisch,  fery  rarely." 

The  thought  of  this  dried  the  tears  which  had  gathered  in 


112  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

the  old  man's  eyes,  and  he  offered  his  arm  to  his  fair  pupil, 
who  could  feel  the  wild  beats  of  his  heart. 

"You  thought  of  us  then  sometimes,"  she  said. 

"Efery  time  ven  I  mein  pret  eat !"  he  replied.  "Virst  ass 
mein  pountivul  laties,  ant  den  ass  de  two  virst  young  girls 
vurty  of  luf  dat  I  haf  zeen." 

The  Countess  dared  say  no  more !  There  was  a  marvelous 
and  respectful  solemnity  in  these  words,  as  though  they 
formed  part  of  some  religious  service,  breathing  fidelity. 
That  smoky  room,  that  den  of  refuse,  became  a  temple  for 
two  goddesses.  Devotion  there  waxed  stronger,  all  unknown 
to  its  objects. 

"Here,  then,  we  are  loved,  truly  loved,"  she  thought. 

The  Countess  shared  the  emotion  with  which  old  Schmucke 
saw  her  get  into  her  carriage,  as  she  blew  from  the  ends  of 
her  fingers  one  of  those  airy  kisses,  which  are  a  woman's 
distant  greeting.  At  this  sight,  Schmucke  stood  transfixed 
long  after  the  carriage  had  disappeared. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  Countess  entered  the  courtyard 
of  Mme.  de  Nucingen's  house.  The  Baroness  was  not  yet 
up ;  but,  in  order  not  to  keep  a  lady  of  position  waiting,  she 
flung  round  her  a  shawl  and  dressing  gown. 

"I  come  on  the  business  of  others,  and  promptitude  is  then 
a  virtue,"  said  the  Countess.  "This  must  be  my  excuse  for 
disturbing  you  so  early." 

"Not  at  all !  I  am  only  too  happy,"  said  the  banker's  wife, 
taking  the  four  papers  and  the  guarantee  of  the  Countess. 

She  rang  for  her  maid. 

"Theresa,  tell  the  cashier  to  bring  me  up  himself  at  once 
forty  thousand  francs." 

Then  she  sealed  the  letter  of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  and 
locked  it  into  a  secret  drawer  of  her  table. 

"What  a  pretty  room  you  have !"  said  the  Countess. 

"M.  de  Nucingen  is  going  to  deprive  me  of  it;  he  is  getting 
ft  new  house  built." 

"You  will  no  doubt  give  this  one  to  your  daughter.  I  hear 
that  she  is  engaged  to  M.  de  Rastignac." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  113 

The  cashier  appeared  as  Mme.  de  Nucingen  was  on  the 
point  of  replying.  She  took  the  notes  and  handed  him  the 
four  bills  of  exchange. 

"That  balances/'  said  the  Baroness  to  the  cashier. 

"Egzebd  for  de  disgound,"  said  the  cashier.  "Dis  Schimicke 
iss  ein  musician  vrom  Ansbach,"  he  added,  with  a  glance  at 
the  signature,  which  sent  a  shiver  through  the  Countess. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  am  transacting  business  ?"  said  Mme.  de 
Nucingen,  with  a  haughty  glance  of  rebuke  at  the  cashier. 
"This  is  my  affair." 

In  vain  did  the  cashier  cast  sly  glances  now  at  the  Countess, 
now  at  the  Baroness ;  not  a  line  of  their  faces  moved. 

"You  can  leave  us  now. — Be  so  good  as  remain  a  minute 
or  two,  so  that  you  may  not  seem  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
this  matter,"  said  the  Baroness  to  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 

"I  must  beg  of  you  to  add  to  your  other  kind  services  that 
of  keeping  my  secret,"  said  the  Countess. 

"In  a  matter  of  charity  that  is  of  course,"  replied  the 
Baroness,  with  a  smile.  "I  shall  have  JOUT  carriage  sent  to 
the  end  of  the  garden ;  it  will  start  without  you ;  then  we  shall 
cross  the  garden  together,  no  one  will  see  you  leave  this.  The 
whole  thing  will  remain  a  mystery." 

"You  must  have  known  suffering  to  have  learned  so  much 
thought  for  others,"  said  the  Countess. 

"I  don't  know  about  thoughtfulness,  but  I  have  suffered 
a  great  deal,"  said  the  Baroness ;  "you,  I  trust,  have  paid  less 
dearly  for  yours." 

The  orders  given,  the  Baroness  took  her  fur  shoes  and 
cloak  and  led  the  Countess  to  the  side  door  of  the  garden. 

When  a  man  is  plotting  against  any  one,  as  du  Tillet  did 
against  Nathan,  he  makes  no  confidant.  Nucingen  had  some 
notion  of  what  was  going  on,  but  his  wife  remained  entirely 
outside  this  Machiavellian  scheming.  She  knew,  however, 
that  Eaoul  was  in  difficulties,  and  was  not  deceived  therefore 
by  the  sisters;  she  suspected  shrewdly  into  whose  hands  the 
money  would  pass,  and  it  gave  her  real  pleasure  to  help 


114  A  DAUGHTER  OP  EVE 

the  Countess.  Entanglements  of  the  kind  always  roused  her 
deepest  sympathy. 

Rastignac,  who  was  playing  the  detective  on  the  intrigues 
of  the  two  bankers,  came  to  lunch  with  Mme.  de  Nucingen. 
Delphine  and  Rastignac  had  no  secrets  from  each  other,  and 
she  told  him  of  her  interview  with  the  Countess.  9  Rastignac, 
unable  to  imagine  how  the  Baroness  had  become  mixed  up  in 
this  affair,  which  in  his  eyes  was  merely  incidental,  one 
weapon  amongst  many,  explained  to  her  that  she  had  this 
morning  in  all  probability  demolished  the  electoral  hopes  of 
du  Tillet  and  rendered  abortive  the  foul  play  and  sacrifices 
of  a  whole  year.  He  then  went  on  to  enlighten  her  as  to  the 
whole  position,  urging  her  to  keep  silence  about  her  own  mis- 
take. 

"If  only/'  she  said,  "the  cashier  does  not  speak  of  it  to 
Nucingen." 

Du  Tillet  was  at  lunch  when,  a  few  minutes  after  twelve, 
M.  Gigonnet  was  announced. 

"Show  him  in/'  said  the  hanker,  regardless  of  his  wife's 
presence.  "Well,  old  Shylock,  is  our  man  under  lock  and 
key?" 

"No." 

"No !    Didn't  I  tell  you  Rue  du  Mail,  at  the  hotel?" 

"He  has  paid,"  said  Gigonnet,  drawing  from  his  pocket- 
book  forty  bank-notes. 

A  look  of  despair  passed  over  du  Tillet's  face. 

"You  should  never  look  askance  at  good  money,"  said  the 
impassive  crony  of  du  Tillet;  "it's  unlucky." 

"Where  did  you  get  this  money,  madame  ?"  said  the  banker, 
with  a  scowl  at  his  wife,  which  made  her  scarlet  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair. 

"I  have  no  idea  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  get  to  the  bottom  of  this,"  he  replied,  starting 
up  in  a  fury.  "You  have  upset  my  most  cherished  plans." 

"You  will  upset  your  lunch,"  said  Gigonnet,  laying  hold 
of  the  tablecloth,  which  had  caught  in  the  skirts  of  du  Tillet'a 
dressing-gown. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  115 

Mme.  du  Tillet  rose  with  frigid  dignity,  for  his  words  had 
terrified  her.  She  rang,  and  a  footman  came. 

"My  horses/'  she  said.  "And  send  Virginie;  I  wish  to 
dress." 

'"Where  are  you  going?"  said  du  Tillet. 

"Men  who  have  any  manners  do  not  question  their  wives. 
You  profess  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"You  have  not  been  yourself  for  the  last  two  days,  since 
your  flippant  sister  has  twice  been  to  see  you." 

"You  ordered  me  to  be  flippant,"  she  said.  "I  am  practis- 
ing on  you." 

Gigonnet,  who  took  no  interest  in  family  broils,  saluted 
Mme.  du  Tillet  and  went  out. 

Du  Tillet  looked  fixedly  at  his  wife,  whose  eyes  met  his 
without  wavering. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  said. 

"It  means  that  I  am  no  longer  a  child  to  be  cowed  by  you," 
she  replied.  "I  am,  and  shall  remain  all  my  life,  a  faithful, 
attentive  wife  to  you;  you  may  be  master  if  you  like,  but 
tyrant,  no." 

Du  Tillet  left  her,  and  Marie-Eugenie  retired  to  her  room, 
quite  unnerved  by  such  an  effort. 

"But  for  my  sister's  danger,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
should  never  have  ventured  to  beard  him  thus ;  as  the  proverb 
says,  'It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  good.' ''' 

During  the  night  Mme.  du  Tillet  again  passed  in  review 
her  sister's  confidences.  Eaoul's  safety  being  assured,  her 
reason  was  no  longer  overpowered  by  the  thought  of  this 
imminent  danger.  She  recalled  the  alarming  energy  with 
which  the  Countess  had  spoken  of  flying  with  Nathan,  in 
order  to  console  him  in  his  calamity  if  she  could  not  avert  it. 
She  foresaw  how  this  man,  in  the  violence  of  his  gratitude 
and  love,  might  persuade  her  sister  to  do  what  to  the  well- 
balanced  Eugenie  seemed  an  act  of  madness.  There  had 
been  instances  lately  in  the  best  society  of  such  elopements, 
which  pay  the  price  of  a  doubtful  pleasure  in  remorse  and 
the  social  discredit  arising  out  of  a  false  position,  and  Eu- 


116  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

genie  recalled  to  mind  their  disastrous  results.  Du  Tillet's 
words  had  put  the  last  touch  to  her  panic;  she  dreaded  dis- 
covery; she  saw  the  signature  of  the  Comtesse  de  Van- 
denesse  in  the  archives  of  the  Nucingen  firm  and  she  re- 
solved to  implore  her  sister  to  confess  everything  to  Felix. 

Mme.  du  Tillet  did  not  find  the  Countess  next  morning; 
but  Felix  was  at  home.  A  voice  within  called  on  Eugenie 
to  save  her  sister.  To-morrow  even  might  be  too  late.  It 
was  a  heavy  responsibility,  but  she  decided  to  tell  everything 
to  the  Count.  Surely  he  would  be  lenient,  since  his  honor 
was  still  safe  and  the  Countess  was  not  so  much  depraved 
as  misguided.  Eugenie  hesitated  to  commit  what  seemed 
like  an  act  of  cowardice  and  treachery  by  divulging  secrets 
which  society,  at  one  in  this,  universally  respects.  But  then 
came  the  thought  of  her  sister's  future,  the  dread  of  seeing 
her  some  day  deserted,  ruined  by  Nathan,  poor,  ill,  unhappy, 
despairing ;  she  hesitated  no  longer,  and  asked  to  see  the 
Count.  Felix,  greatly  surprised  by  this  visit,  had  a  long 
conversation  with  his  sister-in-law,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  showed  such  calm  and  self-mastery  that  Eugenie  trembled 
at  the  desperate  steps  he  might  be  revolving. 

"Don't  be  troubled,"  said  Vandenesse;  "I  shall  act  so  that 
the  day  will  come  when  your  sister  will  bless  you.  However 
great  your  repugnance  in  keeping  from  her  the  fact  that  you 
have  spoken  to  me,  I  must  ask  you  to  give  me  a  few  days' 
grace.  I  require  this  in  order  to  see  my  way  through  certain 
mysteries,  of  which  you  know  nothing,  and  above  all  to  take 
my  measures  with  prudence.  Possibly  I  may  find  out  every- 
thing at  once !  I  am  the  only  one  to  blame,  dear  sister.  All 
lovers  play  their  own  game,  but  all  women  are  not  fortunate 
enough  to  see  life  as  it  really  is." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  117 

CHAPTEE  IX 
A  HUSBAND'S  TRIUMPH 

MME.  DU  TILLET  left  Vandenesse's  house  somewhat  com- 
forted. Felix,  on  his  part,  went  at  once  to  draw  forty  thou- 
sand francs  from  the  Bank  of  France,  and  then  hastened  to 
Mme.  de  Nucingen.  He  found  her  at  home,  thanked  her  for 
the  confidence  she  had  shown  in  his  wife,  and  returned  her  the 
money.  He  gave,  as  the  reason  for  this  mysterious  loan, 
an  excessive  almsgiving,  on  which  he  had  wished  to  impose 
some  limit. 

"Do  not  trouble  to  explain,,  since  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  has 
told  you  about  it,"  said  the  Baronne  de  Nucingen. 

"She  knows  all,"  thought  Vandenesse. 

The  Baroness  handed  him  his  wife's  guarantee  and  sent  for 
the  four  bills.  Vandenesse,  while  this  was  going  on,  scanned 
the  Baroness  with  the  statesman's  piercing  eye;  she  flinched 
a  little,  and  he  judged  the  time  had  come  for  negotiating. 

"We  live,  madame,"  he  said,  "at  a  period  when  nothing  is 
stable.  Thrones  rise  and  disappear  in  France  with  a  discon- 
certing rapidity.  Fifteen  years  may  see  the  end  of  a  great 
empire,  of  a  monarchy,  and  also  of  a  revolution.  No  one 
can  take  upon  himself  to  answer  for  the  future.  You  know 
my  devotion  to  the  legitimist  party.  Such  words  in  my 
mouth  cannot  surprise  you.  Imagine  a  catastrophe:  would 
it  not  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  have  a  friend  on  the  winning 
side?" 

Undoubtedly ,"  she  replied  with  a  smile. 

"Supposing  such  a  case  to  occur,  will  you  have  in  me, 
unknown  to  the  world,  a  grateful  friend,  ready  to  secure  for 
M.  de  Nucingen  under  these  circumstances  the  peerage  to 
which  he  aspires?" 

"What  do  you  ask  from  me  ?"  she  said. 

"Not  much.  Only  the  facts  in  your  possession  about  M. 
Nathan." 


118  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

The  Baroness  repeated  her  conversation  of  the  morning 
with  Rastignac,  and  said  to  the  ex-peer  oi  France,  as  she 
handed  him  the  four  bills  which  the  cashier  brought  her: 

"Don't  forget  your  promise." 

So  far  was  Vandenesse  from  forgetting  this  magical  prom- 
ise, that  he  dangled  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  Baron  de  Ras- 
tignac in  order  to  extract  from  him  further  information. 

On  leaving  the  Baron,  he  dictated  to  a  scrivener  the  fol- 
lowing letter  addressed  to  Florine: 

"If  Mile.  Florine  wishes  to  know  what  part  is  awaiting 
her,  will  she  be  so  good  as  come  to  the  approaching  masked 
ball,  and  bring  M.  Nathan  as  her  escort  ?" 

This  letter  posted,  he  went  next  to  his  man  of  business,  a 
very  acute  fellow,  full  of  resource,  and  withal  honest. 

Him  he  begged  to  personate  a  friend,  to  whom  the  visit 
of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  should  have  been  confided  by 
Schmucke,  aroused  to  a  tardy  suspicion  by  the  fourfold 
repetition  of  the  words,  "I  promise  to  pay  ten  thousand 
francs/'  and  who  should  have  come  to  request  from  M.  Nathan 
a  bill  for  forty  thousand  francs  in  exchange.  It  was  a  risky 
game.  Nathan  might  already  have  learned  how  the  thing 
had  been  arranged,  but  something  had  to  be  dared  for  so 
great  a  prize.  In  her  agitation,  Marie  might  easily  have  for- 
gotten to  ask  her  beloved  Raoul  for  an  acknowledgment  for 
Schmucke.  The  man  of  business  went  at  once  to  Nathan's 
office,  and  returned  triumphant  to  the  Count  by  five  o'clock 
with  the  bill  of  forty  thousand  francs.  The  very  first  words 
exchanged  with  Nathan  had  enabled  him  to  pass  for  an 
emissary  from  the  Countess. 

This  success  obliged  Felix  to  take  steps  for  preventing  a 
meeting  between  Raoul  and  his  wife  before  the  masked  ball, 
whither  he  intended  to  escort  her,  in  order  that  she  might 
discover  for  herself  the  relation  in  which  Nathan  stood  to 
Florine.  He  knew  the  jealous  pride  of  the  Countess,  and 
was  anxious  to  bring  her  to  renounce  the  love  affair  of  her 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  119 

own  will,  so  that  she  might  be  spared  from  humiliation  before 
himself.  He  also  hoped  to  show  her  before  it  was  too  late 
her  letters  to  Nathan  sold  by  Florine,  from  whom  he  reckoned 
on  buying  them  back.  This  prudent  plan,  so  swiftly  conceived 
and  in  part  executed,  was  destined  to  fail  through  one  of 
those  chances  to  which  the  affairs  of  mortals  are  subject. 
After  dinner  Felix  turned  the  conversation  on  the  masked 
ball,  remarking  that  Marie  had  never  been  to  one,  and  pro- 
posed to  take  her  there  the  following  day  by  way  of  diversion. 

"I  will  find  some  one  for  you  to  mystify." 

"Ah !  I  should  like  that  immensely." 

"To  make  it  really  amusing,  a  woman  ought  to  get  hold  of 
a  f  oeman  worthy  of  her  steel,  some  celebrity  or  wit,  and  make 
mincemeat  of  him.  What  do  you  say  to  Nathan?  A  man 
who  knows  Florine  could  put  me  up  to  a  few  little  things 
that  would  drive  him  wild." 

"Florine,"  said  the  Countess,  "the  actress?" 

Marie  had  already  heard  this  name  from  the  lips  of  Quillet 
the  office  attendant ;  a  thought  flashed  through  her  like  light- 
ning. 

''Well,  yes,  Lis  mistress,"  replied  the  Count.  "What  is  there 
surprising  in  that  ?" 

"I  should  have  thought  M.  Nathan  was  too  busy  for  such 
things.  How  can  literary  men  find  time  for  love?" 

"I  say  nothing  about  love,  my  dear,  but  they  have  to  lodge 
somewhere,  like  other  people;  and  when  they  have  no  home 
and  the  bloodhounds  of  the  law  are  after  them,  they  lodge 
with  their  mistresses,  which  may  seem  a  little  strong  to  you, 
but  which  is  infinitely  preferable  to  lodging  in  prison." 

The  fire  was  less  red  than  the  cheeks  of  the  Countess. 

"Would  you  like  him  for -your  victim?  You  could  easily 
give  him  a  fright,"  the  Count  went  on,  paying  no  attention  to 
his  wife's  looks.  "I  can  give  you  proofs  by  which  you  can 
show  him  that  he  has  been  a  mere  child  in  the  hands  of  your 
brother-in-law  du  Tillet.  The  wretch  wanted  to  clap  him 
in  prison  in  order  to  disqualify  him  for  opposing  his  candida- 
ture in  Nucingen's  constituency.  I  have  learned  from  a 


120  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

friend  of  Florine's  the  amount  produced  by  the  sale  of  her 
furniture,  the  whole  of  which  she  gave  to  Nathan  for  starting 
his  paper,  and  I  know  what  portion  was  sent  to  him  of  the 
harvest  which  she  reaped  this  year  in  the  provinces  and 
Belgium;  money  which,  in  the  long  run,  all  goes  into  the 
pockets  of  du  Tillet,  Nucingen,  and  Massol.  These  three 
have  sold  the  paper  in  advance  to  the  Government,  so  confi- 
dent are  they  of  dispossessing  the  great  man," 

"M.  Nathan  would  never  take  money  from  an  actress." 

"You  don't  know  these  people,  my  dear,"  said  the  Count; 
"he  won't  deny  the  fact." 

"I  shall  certainly  go  to  the  ball,"  said  the  Countess. 

"You  will  have  some  fun,"  replied  Yandenesse.  "Armed 
with  such  weapons,  you  will  read  a  sharp  lesson  to  Nathan's 
vanity,  and  it  will  be  a  kindness  to  him.  You  will  watch  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  his  rage,  and  his  writhings  under  your  sting- 
ing epigrams.  Your  badinage  will  be  quite  enough  to  show 
a  clever  man  like  him  the  danger  in  which  he  stands,  and 
you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  getting  a  good  trouncing 
for  the  juste  milieu  team  within  their  own  stables.  .  .  . 
You  are  not  listening,  my  child." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  am  only  too  much  interested,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  will  tell  you  later  why  I  am  so  anxious  to  be 
certain  about  all  this." 

"Certain?"  replied  Vandenesse.  "If  you  keep  on  yutu 
mask,  I  will  take  you  to  supper  with  Florine  and  Nathan. 
It  will  be  sport  for  a  great  lady  like  you  to  take  in  an  actress 
after  having  kept  a  famous  man  on  the  stretch,  manoeuvring 
round  his  most  precious  secrets;  you  can  harness  them  both 
to  the  same  mystification.  I  shall  put  myself  on  the  track 
of  Nathan's  infidelities.  If  I  can  lay  hold  of  the  details  of 
any  recent  affair,  you  will  be  able  to  indulge  yourself  in  the 
spectacle  of  a  courtesan's  rage,  which  is  worth  seeing.  The 
fury  of  Florine  will  seethe  like  an  Alpine  torrent.  She  adores 
Nathan;  he  is  everything  to  her,  precious  as  the  marrow 
of  her  bones,  dear  as  her  cubs  to  a  lioness.  I  remember  in  my 
youth  having  seen  a  celebrated  actress,  whose  writing  was  like 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  121 

a  kitchen-maid's,  come  to  demand  back  her  letters  from  one 
of  my  friends.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it  since ;  that 
quiet  fury,  that  impudent  dignity,  that  barbaric  pose.  .  .  . 
Are  you  ill,  Marie?" 

"No !  only  the  fire  is  so  hot." 

The  Countess  went  to  fling  herself  down  on  a  sofa.  All  at 
once  an  incalculable  impulse,  inspired  by  the  consuming  ache 
of  jealousy,  drove  her  to  her  feet.  Trembling  in  every  limb, 
she  crossed  her  arms,  and  advanced  slowly  towards  her  hus- 
band. 

"How  much  do  you  know?"  she  asked.  "It  is  not  like 
you  to  torture  me.  Even  were  I  guilty,  you  would  give 
me  an  easy  death." 

"What  should  I  know,  Marie?" 

"About  Nathan?" 

"You  believe  you  love  him,"  he  replied,  "but  you  love  only 
a  phantom  made  of  words." 

"Then  you  do  know ?" 

"Everything,"  he  said. 

The  word  fell  like  a  blow  on  Marie's  head. 

"If  you  wish,"  he  continued,  "it  shall  be  as  though  I  knew 
nothing.  My  child,  you  have  fallen  into  an  abyss,  and  I 
must  save  you;  already  I  have  done  something.  See " 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  her  guarantee  and  Schmucke's 
four  bills,  which  the  Countess  recognized,  and  threw  them 
into  the  fire. 

"What  would  have  become  of  you,  poor  Marie,  in  three 
months  from  now?  You  would  have  been  dragged  into 
Court  by  bailiffs.  Don't  hang  your  head,  don't  be  ashamed ; 
you  have  been  betrayed  by  the  noblest  of  feelings;  you  have 
trifled,  not  with  a  man,  but  with  your  own  imagination. 
There  is  not  a  woman — not  one,  do  you  hear,  Marie? — who 
would  not  have  been  fascinated  in  your  place.  It  would  be 
absurd  that  men,  who,  in  the  course  of  twenty  years,  have 
committed  a  thousand  acts  of  folly,  should  insist  that  a  wo- 
man is  not  to  lose  her  head  once  in  a  lifetime.  Pray  Heaven 
I  may  never  triumph  over  you  or  burden  you  with  a  pity 


122  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

such  as  you  repudiated  with  scorn  the  other  day !  Possibly 
this  wretched  man  was  sincere  when  he  wrote  to  you,  sincere 
in  trying  to  put  an  end  to  himself,  sincere  in  returning  that 
very  evening  to  Florine.  A  man  is  a  poor  creature  compared 
to  a  woman.  I  am  speaking  now  for  you,  not  for  myself. 
I  am  tolerant,  but  society  is  not;  it  shuns  the  woman  who 
makes  a  scandal;  it  will  allow  none  to  be  rich  at  once  in  its 
regard  and  in  the  indulgence  of  passion.  Whether  this  is 
just  or  not,  I  cannot  say.  Enough  that  the  world  is  cruel. 
It  may  be  that,  taken  in  the  mass,  it  is  harsher  than  are  the 
individuals  separately.  A  thief,  sitting  in  the  pit,  will  ap- 
plaud the  triumph  of  innocence,  and  filch  its  jewels  as  he 
goes  out.  Society  has  no  balm  for  the  ills  it  creates;  it 
honors  clever  roguery,  and  leaves  unrewarded  silent  devotion. 
All  this  I  see  and  know;  but  if  I  cannot  reform  the  world, 
at  least  I  can  protect  you  from  yourself.  We  have  here  to  do 
with  a  man  who  brings  you  nothing  but  trouble,  not  with  a 
saintly  and  pious  love,  such  as  sometimes  commands  self- 
effacement  and  brings  its  own  excuse  with  it.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  to  blame  in  not  bringing  more  variety  into  your  peaceful 
life;  I  ought  to  have  enlivened  our  calm  routine  with  the 
stir  and  excitement  of  travel  and  change.  I  can  see  also 
an  explanation  of  the  attraction  which  drew  you  to  a  man  of 
note,  in  the  envy  you  roused  in  certain  women.  Lady  Dudley, 
Mme.  d'Espard,  Mme.  de  Manerville,  and  my  sister-in-law 
Emilie  count  for  something  in  all  this.  These  women,  whom 
I  warned  you  against,  have  no  doubt  worked  on  your  curiosity, 
more  with  the  object  of  annoying  me  than  in  order  to  pre- 
cipitate you  among  storms  which,  I  trust,  may  have  only 
threatened  without  breaking  over  you." 

The  Countess,  as  she  listened  to  these  generous  words,  was 
tossed  about  by  a  host  of  conflicting  feelings,  but  lively  ad- 
miration for  Felix  dominated  the  tempest.  A  noble  and 
high-spirited  soul  quickly  responds  to  gentle  handling.  This 
sensitiveness  is  the  counterpart  of  physical  grace.  Marie  ap- 
preciated a  magnanimity  which  sought  in  self-depreciation  a 
screen  for  the  blushes  of  an  erring  woman.  She  made  a  fran- 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  123 

tic  motion  to  leave  the  room,  then  turned  back,  fearing  lest 
her  husband  should  misunderstand  and  take  alarm. 

"Wait !"  she  said,  as  she  vanished. 

Felix  had  artfully  prepared  her  defence,  and  he  was  soon 
recompensed  for  his  adroitness;  for  his  wife  returned  with 
the  whole  of  Nathan's  letters  in  her  hand,  and  held  them  out 
to  him. 

"Be  my  judge,"  she  said,  kneeling  before  him. 

"How  can  a  man  judge  where  he  loves  ?"  he  replied. 

He  took  the  letters  and  threw  them  on  the  fire;  later,  the 
thought  that  he  had  read  them  might  have  stood  between  him 
and  his  wife.  Marie,  her  head  upon  his  knees,  burst  into 
tears. 

"My  child,  where  are  yours  ?"  he  said,  raising  her  head. 

At  this  question,  the  Countess  no  longer  felt  the  intolerable 
burning  of  her  cheeks,  a  cold  chill  went  through  her. 

"That  you  may  not  suspect  your  husband  of  slandering  the 
man  whom  you  have  thought  worthy  of  you,  I  will  have  those 
letters  restored  to  you  by  Florine  herself." 

"Oh !  surely  he  would  give  them  back  if  I  asked  him." 

"And  supposing  he  refused?" 

The  Countess  hung  her  head. 

"The  world  is  horrid,"  she  said ;  "I  will  not  go  into  it  any 
more;  I  will  live  alone  with  you,  if  you  forgive  me." 

"You  might  weary  again.  Besides,  what  would  the  world 
say  if  you  left  it  abruptly?  When  spring  comes,  we  will 
travel,  we  will  go  to  Italy,  we  will  wander  about  Europe,  until 
another  child  comes  to  need  your  care.  We  must  not  give 
up  the  ball  to-morrow,  for  it  is  the  only  way  to  get  hold  of 
your  letters  without  compromising  ourselves;  and  when 
Florine  brings  them  to  you,  will  not  that  be  the  measure  of 
her  power?" 

"And  I  must  see  that?"  said  the  terrified  Countess. 

"To-morrow  night." 

Towards  midnight  next  evening  Nathan  was  pacing  the 
promenade  at  the  masked  ball,  giving  his  arm  to  a  domino 


124  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

with  a  very  fair  imitation  of  the  conjugal  manner.  After 
two  or  three  turns  two  masked  women  came  up  to  them. 

"Fool !  you  have  done  for  yourself ;  Marie  is  here  and  sees 
you/'  said  Vandenesse,  in  the  disguise  of  a  woman,  to  Nathan, 
while  the  Countess,  all  trembling,  addressed  Florine: 

"If  you  will  listen,  I  will  tell  you  secrets  which  Nathan  has 
kept  from  you,  and  which  will  show  you  the  dangers  that 
threaten  your  love  for  him." 

Nathan  had  abruptly  dropped  Florine's  arm  in  order  to 
follow  the  Count,  who  escaped  him  in  the  crowd.  Florine 
went  to  take  a  seat  beside  the  Countess,  who  had  drawn  her 
away  to  a  form  by  the  side  of  Vandenesse,  now  returned  to 
look  after  his  wife. 

"Speak  out,  my  dear,"  said  Florine,  "and  don't  suppose 
you  can  keep  me  long  on  the  tenter-hooks.  Not  a  creature 
in  the  world  can  get  Eaoul  from  me,  I  can  tell  you.  He  is 
bound  to  me  by  habit,  which  is  better  than  love  any  day." 

"In  the  first  place,  are  you  Florine  ?"  said  Felix,  resuming 
his  natural  voice. 

"A  pretty  question  indeed !  If  you  don't  know  who  I  am, 
why  should  I  believe  you,  pray  ?" 

"Go  and  ask  Nathan,  who  is  hunting  now  for  the  mis- 
tress of  whom  I  speak,  where  he  spent  the  night  three  days 
ago !  He  tried  to  stifle  himself  with  charcoal,  my  dear,  un- 
known to  you,  because  he  was  ruined.  That's  all  you  know 
about  the  affairs  of  the  man  whom  you  profess  to  love;  you 
leave  him  penniless,  and  he  kills  himself,  or  rather  he  doesn't, 
he  tries  to  and  fails.  Suicide  when  it  doesn't  come  off  is 
much  on  a  par  with  a  bloodless  duel." 

"It  is  a  lie,"  said  Florine.  "He  dined  with  me  that  day, 
but  not  till  after  sunset.  The  bailiffs  were  after  him,  poor 
boy.  He  was  in  hiding,  that's  all." 

"Well,  you  can  go  and  ask  at  the  Hotel  du  Mail,  Rue  du 
Mail,  whether  he  was  not  brought  there  at  the  point  of  death 
by  a  beautiful  lady,  with  whom  he  has  had  intimate  relations 
for  a  year;  the  letters  of  your  rival  are  hidden  in  your  house, 
under  your  very  nose.  If  you  care  to  catch  Nathan  out,  we 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  •     125 

can  go  all  three  to  your  house;  there  I  shall  give  you  ocular 
proof  that  you  can  get  him  clear  of  his  difficulties  very  shortly 
if  you  like  to  be  good-natured." 

"That's  not  good  enough  for  Florine,  thank  you,  my  friend. 
I  know  very  well  that  Nathan  can't  have  a  love  affair." 

"Because,  I  suppose,  he  has  redoubled  his  attentions  to  you 
of  late,  as  if  that  were  not  the  very  proof  that  he  is  tremen- 
dously in  love " 

"With  a  society  woman? — Nathan?"  said  Florine.  "Oh! 
I  don't  trouble  about  a  trifle  like  that." 

"Very  well,  would  you  like  him  to  come  and  tell  you  himself 
that  he  won't  take  you  home  this  evening?" 

"If  you  get  him  to  say  that,"  answered  Florine,  "I  will 
let  you  come  with  me,  and  we  can  hunt  together  for  those 
letters,  which  I  shall  believe  in  when  I  see  them." 

"Stay  here,"  said  Felix,  "and  watch." 

He  took  his  wife's  arm  and  waited  within  a  few  steps  of 
Florine.  Before  long  Nathan,  who  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  promenade,  searching  in  all  directions  for  his  mask  like 
a  dog  who  has  lost  his  master,  returned  to  the  spot  where  the 
mysterious  warning  had  been  spoken.  Seeing  evident  marks 
of  disturbance  on  Eaoul's  brow,  Florine  planted  herself  firmly 
in  front  of  him  and  said  in  a  commanding  voice: 

"You  must  not  leave  me ;  I  have  a  reason  for  wanting  you." 

"Marie !"  whispered  the  Countess,  by  her  husband's  in- 
structions, in  Eaoul's  ear.  Then  she  added,  "Who  is  that 
woman  ?  Leave  her  immediately,  go  outside,  and  wait  for  me 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase." 

In  this  terrible  strait,  Eaoul  shook  off  roughly  the  arm  of 
Florine,  who  was  quite  unprepared  for  such  violence,  and, 
though  clinging  to  him  forcibly,  was  obliged  to  let  go.  Na- 
than at  once  lost  himself  in  the  crowd. 

"What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  cried  Felix  in  the  ear  of  the  stupe- 
fied Florine,  to  whom  he  offered  his  arm. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let  us  go,  whoever  you  are.  Have  you 
a  carriage  ?" 


126  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

Vandenesse's  only  reply  was  to  hurry  Florine  out  and 
hasten  to  rejoin  his  wife  at  a  spot  agreed  upon  under  the 
colonnade.  In  a  few  minutes  the  three  dominoes,  briskly 
conveyed  by  Vandenesse's  coachman,  arrived  at  the  house  of 
the  actress,  who  took  off  her  mask.  Mme.  de  Vandenesse 
could  not  repress  a  thrill  of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  the 
actress,  boiling  with  rage,  magnificent  in  her  wrath  and 
jealousy. 

"There  is,"  said  Vandenesse,  "a  certain  writing-case,  the 
key  of  which  has  never  been  in  your  hands ;  the  letters  must  be 
in  it." 

"You  have  me  there;  you  know  something,  at  any  rate, 
which  has  been  bothering  me  for  some  days,"  said  Florine, 
dashing  into  the  study  to  fetch  the  writing-case. 

Vandenesse  saw  his  wife  grow  pale  under  her  mask. 
Florine's  room  told  more  of  Nathan's  intimacy  with  the 
actress  than  was  altogether  pleasant  for  a  romantic  lady- 
love. A  woman's  eye  is  quick  to  seize  the  truth  in  such  mat- 
ters, and  the  Countess  read  in  the  promiscuous  household 
arrangements  a  confirmation  of  what  Vandenesse  had  told 
her. 

Florine  returned  with  the  case. 

"How  shall  we  open  it?"  she  said. 

Then  she  sent  for  a  large  kitchen  knife,  and  when  her 
maid  brought  it,  brandished  it  with  a  mocking  air,  exclaim- 
ing: 

"This  is  the  way  to  cut  off  the  pretty  dears'  heads!"* 

The  Countess  shuddered.  She  realized  now,  even  more  than 
her  husband's  words  had  enabled  her  to  do  the  evening  before, 
the  depths  from  which  she  had  so  narrowly  escaped. 

"What  a  fool  I  am !"  cried  Florine.  "His  razor  would  be 
better." 

She  went  to  fetch  the  razor,  which  had  just  served  Nathan 
for  shaving,  and  cut  the  edges  of  the  morocco.  They  fell 
apart,  and  Marie's  letters  appeared.  Florine  took  up  one  at 
random. 

•  In  the  French,  "poulets,"  which  means  "love-letters"  as  well  as   "chickens." 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  127 

"Sure  enough,  this  is  some  fine  lady's  work !  Only  see  how 
she  can  spell !" 

Vandenesse  took  the  letters  and  handed  them  to  his  wife, 
who  carried  them  to  a  table  in  order  to  see  if  they  were  all 
there. 

"Will  you  give  them  up  for  this  ?"  said  Vandenesse,  holding 
out  to  Florine  the  bill  for  forty  thousand  francs. 

"What  a  donkey  he  is  to  sign  such  things !  .  .  .  'Bond 
for  bills/  "  cried  Florine,  reading  the  document.  "Ah !  yes, 
you  shall  have  your  fill  of  Countesses !  And  I,  who  worked 
myself  to  death,  body  and  soul,  raising  money  in  the  provinces 
for  him — I,  who  slaved  like  a  broker  to  save  him !  That's  a 
man  all  over;  go  to  the  devil  for  him,  and  he'll  trample  you 
under  foot !  I  shall  have  it  out  with  him  for  this." 

Mme.  de  Vandenesse  had  fled  with  the  letters. 

"Hi,  there !  pretty  domino !  leave  me  one,  if  you  please, 
just  to  throw  in  his  face." 

"That  is  impossible  now,"  said  Vandenesse. 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"The  other  domino  is  your  late  rival."  , 

"You  don't  say  so!  Well,  she  might  have  said  'Thank 
you  !'  "  cried  Florine. 

"And  what  then  do  you  call  the  forty  thousand  francs?" 
said  Vandenesse,  with  a  polite  bow. 

It  very  seldom  happens  that  a  young  fellow  who  has  once 
attempted  suicide  cares  to  taste  for  a  second  time  its  discom- 
forts. When  suicide  does  not  cure  a  man  of  life  altogether, 
it  cures  him  of  a  self-sought  death.  Thus  Raoul  no  longer 
thought  of  making  away  with  himself  even  after  Florine's 
possession  of  Schmucke's  guarantee — plainly  through  the  in- 
tervention of  Vandenesse — had  reduced  him  to  a  still  worse 
plight  than  that  from  which  he  had  tried  to  escape.  He 
made  an  attempt  to  see  the  Countess  again  in  order  to  explain 
to  her  the  nature  of  the  love  which  burned  brighter  than  ever 
in  his  breast.  But  the  first  time  they  met  in  society,  the 
Countess  fixed  Raoul  with  that  stony,  scornful  glance  which 
makes  an  impassable  barrier  between  a  man  and  a  woman. 


128  A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 

With  all  his  audacity,  Nathan  made  no  further  attempt 
during  the  winter  to  address  the  Countess. 

He  unburdened  his  soul,  however,  to  Blondet,  discoursing 
to  him  of  Laura  and  Beatrice,  whenever  the  name  of  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  occurred.  He  paraphrased  that  beautiful  pas- 
sage of  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  his  day — "Dream  of  the 
soul,  blue  flower  with  golden  heart,  whose  spreading  roots, 
finer  a  thousand-fold  than  fairies'  silken  tresses,  pierce  to 
the  inmost  being  and  draw  their  life  from  all  that  is  purest 
there :  flower  sweet  and  bitter !  To  uproot  thee  is  to  draw  the 
heart's  blood,  oozing  in  ruddy  drops  from  thy  broken  stem ! 
Ah !  cursed  flower,  how  thou  hast  thriven  on  my  soul !" 

"You're  driveling,  old  boy,"  said  Blondet.  "I  grant  you 
there  was  a  pretty  enough  flower,  only  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  soul;  and  instead  of  crooning  like  a  blind  man 
before  an  empty  shrine,  you  had  better  be  thinking  how  to 
get  out  of  this  scrape,  so  as  to  put  yourself  straight  with 
the  authorities  and  settle  down.  You  are  too  much  of  the 
artist  to  make  a  politician.  You  have  been  played  on  by  men 
who  are  your  inferiors.  Go  and  get  yourself  played  on  some 
other  stage." 

"Marie  can't  prevent  my  loving  her,"  said  Nathan.  "She 
shall  be  my  Beatrice." 

"My  dear  fellow,  Beatrice  was  a  child  of  twelve,  whom 
Dante  never  saw  again ;  otherwise,  would  she  have  been  Bea- 
trice? If  we  are  to  make  a  divinity  of  a  woman,  we  must 
not  see  her  to-day  in  a  mantle,  to-morrow  in  a  low-necked 
dress,  the  day  after  on  the  Boulevards,  cheapening  toys  for 
her  last  baby.  While  there  is  Florine  handy  to  play  by  turns 
a  comedy  duchess,  a  tragedy  middle-class  wife,  a  negress,  a 
marchioness,  a  colonel,  a  Swiss  peasant  girl,  a  Peruvian  virgin 
of  the  sun  (the  only  virginity  she  knows  much  about),  I 
don't  know  why  one  should  bother  about  society  women." 

Du  Tillet,  by  means  of  a  forced  sale,  compelled  the  penni- 
less Nathan  to  surrender  his  share  in  the  paper.  The  great 
man  received  only  five  votes  in  the  constituency  which  elected 
du  Tillet. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE  129 

When  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse,  after  a  long  and  de- 
lightful time  of  travel  in  Italy,  returned  in  the  following 
winter  to  Paris,  Nathan  had  exactly  carried  out  the  forecast 
of  Felix.  Following  Blondet's  advice,  he  was  negotiating 
with  the  party  in  power.  His  personal  affairs  were  so  em- 
barrassed that,  one  day  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  the  Comtesse 
Marie  saw  her  ancient  adorer  walking  in  the  sorriest  plight, 
with  Florine  on  his  arm.  In  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  the  man 
to  whom  she  is  indifferent  is  always  more  or  less  ugly;  but 
the  man  whom  she  has  ceased  to  love  is  a  monster,  especially 
if  he  is  of  the  type  to  which  Nathan  belonged.  Mme.  de  Van- 
denesse felt  a  pang  of  shame  as  she  remembered  her  fancy  for 
Eaoul.  Had  she  not  been  cured  before  of  any  unlawful  pas- 
sion, the  contrast  which  this  man,  already  declining  in  popular 
estimation,  then  offered  to  her  husband,  would  have  sufficed 
to  give  the  latter  precedence  over  an  angel. 

At  the  present  day  this  ambitious  author,  of  ready  pen 
but  halting  character,  has  at  last  capitulated  and  installed 
himself  in  a  sinecure  like  any  ordinary  being.  Having  sup- 
ported every  scheme  of  disintegration,  he  now  lives  in  peace 
beneath  the  shade  of  a  ministerial  broad-sheet.  The  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  fruitful  text  of  his  mockery,  adorns 
his  buttonhole.  Peace  at  any  price,  the  stock-in-trade  of  his 
denunciation  as  editor  of  a  revolutionary  organ,  has  now 
become  the  theme  of  his  laudatory  articles.  The  hereditary 
principle,  butt  of  his  Saint-Simonian  oratory,  is  defended 
by  him  to-day  in  weighty  arguments.  This  inconsistency  has 
its  origin  and  explanation  in  the  change  of  front  of  certain 
men  who,  in  the  course  of  our  latest  political  developments, 
have  acted  as  Eaoul  did. 

JARDIES,  December  1838. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO   BRIDES 

To  George  Sand 

Your  name,  dear  George,  while  casting  a  reflected  radiance  on 
my  book,  can  gain  no  new  glory  from  this  page.  And  yet  it  is 
neither  self-interest  nor  diffidence  which  has  led  me  to  place  it 
there,  but  only  the  wish  that  it  should  bear  witness  to  the  solid 
friendship  between  us,  which  has  survived  our  wanderings  and 
separations,  and  triumphed  over  the  busy  malice  of  the  world. 
This  feeling  is  hardly  likely  now  to  change.  The  goodly  company 
of  friendly  names,  which  will  remain  attached  to  my  works, 
forms  an  element  of  pleasure  in  the  midst  of  the  vexation  caused 
by  their  increasing  number.  Each  fresh  book,  in  fact,  gives  rise 
to  fresh  annoyance,  were  it  only  in  the  reproaches  aimed  at  my 
too  prolific  pen,  as  though  it  could  rival  in  fertility  the  world 
from  which  I  draw  my  models!  Would  it  not  be  a  fine  thing, 
George,  if  the  future  antiquarian  of  dead  literatures  were  to  find 
in  this  company  none  but  great  names  and  generous  hearts, 
friends  bound  by  pure  and  holy  ties,  the  illustrious  figures  of 
the  century?  May  I  not  justly  pride  myself  on  this  assured  pos- 
session, rather  than  on  a  popularity  necessarily  unstable?  For 
him  who  knows  you  well,  it  is  happiness  to  be  able  to  sign  him 

self,  as  I  do  here, 

Your  friend, 

DE  BALZAC. 
PABIB,  Juwe  18*X 


132  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


FIRST  PART 


LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  REN^E  DE  MAUCOMBE. 

PARIS,  September. 

SWEETHEART,  I  too  am  free !  And  I  am  the  first  too,  unless 
you  have  written  to  Blois,  at  our  sweet  tryst  of  letter- 
writing. 

Eaise  those  great  black  eyes  of  yours,  fixed  on  my  opening 
sentence,  and  keep  this  excitement  for  the  letter  which  shall 
tell  you  of  my  first  love.  By  the  way,  why  always  "first?" 
Is  there,  I  wonder,  a  second  love  ? 

Don't  go  running  on  like  this,  you  will  say,  but  tell  me 
rather  how  you  made  your  escape  from  the  convent  where 
you  were  to  take  your  vows.  Well,  dear,  I  don't  know  about 
the  Carmelites,  but  the  miracle  of  my  own  deliverance  was,  I 
can  assure  you,  most  humdrum.  The  cries  of  an  alarmed 
conscience  triumphed  over  the  dictates  of  a  stern  policy — 
there's  the  whole  mystery.  The  sombre  melancholy  which 
seized  me  after  you  left  hastened  the  happy  climax,  my  aunt 
did  not  want  to  see  me  die  of  a  decline,  and  my  mother, 
whose  one  unfailing  cure  for  my  malady  was  a  novitiate, 
gave  way  before  her. 

So  I  am  in  Paris,  thanks  to  you  too,  my  love !  Dear  Renee, 
could  you  have  seen  me  the  day  I  found  myself  parted  from 
you,  well  might  you  have  gloried  in  the  deep  impression  you 
had  made  on  so  youthful  a  bosom.  We  had  lived  so  con- 
stantly together,  sharing  our  dreams  and  letting  our  fancy 
roam  together,  that  I  verily  believe  our  souls  had  become 
welded  together,  like  those  two  Hungarian  girls,  whose  death 
we  heard  about  from  M.  Beauvisage — poor  misnamed  being ! 
Never  surely  was  man  better  cut  out  by  nature  for  the  post 
of  convent  physician ! 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  133 

Tell  me,  did  you  not  droop  and  sicken  with  your  darling  ? 

In  my  gloomy  depression,  I  could  do  nothing  but  count 
over  the  ties  which  bind  us.  But  it  seemed  as  though  dis- 
tance had  loosened  them ;  I  wearied  of  life,  like  a  turtle-dove 
widowed  of  her  mate.  Death  smiled  sweetly  on  me,  and  I  was 
proceeding  quietly  to  die.  To  be  at  Blois,  at  the  Carmelites, 
consumed  by  dread  of  having  to  take  my  vows  there,  a  Mile, 
de  la  Valliere,  but  without  her  prelude,  and  without  my 
Eenee  !  How  could  I  not  be  sick — sick  unto  death  ? 

How  different  it  used  to  be !  That  monotonous  existence, 
where  every  hour  brings  its  duty,  its  prayer,  its  task,  with 
such  desperate  regularity  that  you  can  tell  what  a  Carmelite 
sister  is  doing  in  any  place,  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or  day ; 
that  deadly  dull  routine,  which  crushes  out  all  interest  in 
one's  surroundings,  had  become  for  us  two  a  world  of  life  and 
movement.  Imagination  had  thrown  open  her  fairy  realms, 
and  in  these  our  spirits  ranged  at  will,  each  in  turn  serving 
as  magic  steed  to  the  other,  the  more  alert  quickening  the 
drowsy;  the  world  from  which  our  bodies  were  shut  out 
became  the  playground  of  our  fancy,  which  reveled  there  in 
frolicsome  adventure.  The  very  Lives  of  the  Saints  helped 
us  to  understand  what  was  so  carefully  left  unsaid !  But  the 
day  when  I  was  reft  of  your  sweet  company,  I  became  a  true 
Carmelite,  such  as  they  appeared  to  us,  a  modern  Danaid, 
who,  instead  of  trying  to  fill  a  bottomless  barrel,  draws  every 
day,  from  Heaven  knows  what  deep,  an  empty  pitcher,  think- 
ing to  find  it  full. 

My  aunt  knew  nothing  of  this  inner  life.  How  should  she, 
who  has  made  a  paradise  for  herself  within  the  two  acres  of 
her  convent,  understand  my  revolt  against  life?  A  religious 
life,  if  embraced  by  girls  of  our  age,  demands  either  an  ex- 
treme simplicity  of  soul,  such  as  we,  sweetheart,  do  not  pos- 
sess, or  else  an  ardor  for  self-sacrifice  like  that  which  makes 
my  aunt  so  noble  a  character.  But  she  sacrificed  herself  for 
a  brother  to  whom  she  was  devoted;  to  do  the  same  for  an 
unknown  person  or  an  idea  is  surely  more  than  can  be  asked 
of  mortals. 


134  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

For  the  last  fortnight  I  have  been  gulping  down  so 
reckless  words,  burying  so  many  reflections  in  my  bosom, 
and  accumulating  such  a  store  of  things  to  tell,  fit  for  your 
ear  alone,  that  I  should  certainly  have  been  suffocated  but 
for  the  resource  of  letter-writing  as  a  sorry  substitute  for  our 
beloved  talks.  How  hungry  one's  heart  gets  !  I  am  beginning 
my  journal  this  morning,  and  I  picture  to  myself  that  yours 
is  already  started,  and  that,  in  a  few  days,  I  shall  be  at  home 
in  your  beautiful  Gemenos  valley,  which  I  know  only  through 
your  descriptions,  just  as  you  will  live  that  Paris  life,  revealed 
to  you  hitherto  only  in  our  dreams. 

Well,  then,  sweet  child,  know  that  on  a  certain  morning — 
a  red-letter  day  in  my  life — there  arrived  from  Paris  a  lady 
companion  and  Philippe,  the  last  remaining  of  my  grand- 
mother's valets,  charged  to  carry  me  off.  When  my  aunt 
summoned  me  to  her  room  and  told  me  the  news,  I  could  not 
speak  for  joy,  and  only  gazed  at  her  stupidly. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  in  her  guttural  voice,  "I  can  see 
that  you  leave  me  without  regret,  but  this  farewell  is  not 
the  last;  we  shall  meet  again.  God  has  placed  on  your  fore- 
head the  sign  of  the  elect.  You  have  the  pride  which  leads 
to  heaven  or  to  hell,  but  your  nature  is  too  noble  to  choose 
the  downward  path.  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself;  with  you,  passion,  I  can  see,  will  be  very  different 
from  what  it  is  with  most  women." 

She  drew  me  gently  to  her  and  kissed  my  forehead.  The 
kiss  made  my  flesh  creep,  for  it  burned  with  that  consuming 
fire  which  eats  away  her  life,  which  has  turned  to  black  the 
azure  of  her  eyes,  and  softened  the  lines  about  them,  has 
furrowed  the  warm  ivory  of  her  temples,  and  cast  a  sallow 
tinge  over  the  beautiful  face. 

Before  replying,  I  kissed  her  hands. 

"Dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness; 
and  if  it  has  not  made  your  nunnery  all  that  it  ought  to  be 
for  my  health  of  body  and  soul,  you  may  be  sure  nothing 
short  of  a  broken  heart  will  bring  me  back  again — and  that 
you  would  not  wish  for  me.  You  will  not  see  me  here  again 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  135 

till  my  royal  lover  has  deserted  me,  and  I  warn  you  that  if 
I  catch  him,  death  alone  shall  tear  him  from  me.  I  fear  no 
Montespan." 

She  smiled  and  said: 

"Go,  madcap,  and  take  your  idle  fancies  with  you.  There 
is  certainly  more  of  the  bold  Montespan  in  you  than  of  the 
gentle  la  Valliere." 

I  threw  my  arms  round  her.  The  poor  lady  could  not 
refrain  from  escorting  me  to  the  carriage.  There  her 
tender  gaze  was  divided  between  me  and  the  armorial  bear- 
ings. 

At  Beaugency  night  overtook  me,  still  sunk  in  a  stupor  of 
the  mind  produced  by  these  strange  parting  words.  What  can 
be  awaiting  me  in  this  world  for  which  I  have  so  hungered  ? 

To  begin  with,  I  found  no  one  to  receive  me;  my  heart 
had  been  schooled  in  vain.  My  mother  was  at  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  my  father  at  the  Council;  my  brother,  the  Due  de 
Rhetore,  never  comes  in,  I  am  told,  till  it  is  time  to  dress 
for  dinner.  Miss  Griffith  (she  is  not  unlike  a  griffin)  and 
Philippe  took  me  to  my  rooms. 

The  suite  is  the  one  which  belonged  to  my  beloved  grand- 
mother, the  Princess  de  Vauremont,  to  whom  I  owe  some 
sort  of  a  fortune  which  no  one  has  ever  told  me  about.  As 
you  read  this,  you  will  understand  the  sadness  which  came 
over  me  as  I  entered  a  place  sacred  to  so  many  memories,  and 
found  the  rooms  just  as  she  had  left  them!  I  was  to  sleep 
in  the  bed  where  she  died. 

Sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  I  burst  into  tears, 
forgetting  I  was  not  a,lone,  and  remembering  only  how  often 
I  had  stood  there  by  her  knees,  the  better  to  hear  her  words. 
There  1  had  gazed  upon  her  face,  buried  in  its  brown  laces, 
and  worn  as  much  by  age  as  by  the  pangs  of  approaching 
death.  The  room  seemed  to  me  still  warm  with  the  heat 
which  she  kept  up  there.  How  comes  it  that  Armande- 
Louise-Marie  de  Chaulieu  must  be  like  some  peasant  girl, 
who  sleeps  in  her  mothers  bed  the  very  morrow  of  her 
death  ?  For  to  me  it  was  as  though  the  Princess,  who  died  in 
1817,  had  passed  away  but  yesterday. 


136  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

I  saw  many  things  in  the  room  which  ought  to  have  been 
removed.  Their  presence  showed  the  carelessness  with  which 
people,  busy  with  the  affairs  of  state,  may  treat  their  own,  and 
also  the  little  thought  which  had  been  given  since  her  death 
to  this  grand  old  lady,  who  will  always  rema.in  one  of  the 
striking  figures  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Philippe  seemed 
to  divine  something  of  the  cause  of  my  tears.  He  told  me 
that  the  furniture  of  the  Princess  had  been  left  to  me  in  her 
will  and  that  my  father  had  allowed  all  the  larger  suites 
to  remain  dismantled,  as  the  Kevolution  had  left  them.  On 
hearing  this  I  rose,  and  Philippe  opened  the  door  of  the 
small  drawing-room  which  leads  into  the  reception-rooms. 

In  these  I  found  all  the  well-remembered  wreckage;  the 
panels  above  the  doors,  which  had  contained  valuable  pict- 
ures, bare  of  all  but  empty  frames;  broken  marbles,  mirrors 
carried  off.  In  old  days  I  was  afraid  to  go  up  the  state 
staircase  and  cross  these  vast,  deserted  rooms;  so  I  used  to 
get  to  the  Princess'  rooms  by  a  small  staircase  which  runs 
under  the  arch  of  the  larger  one  and  leads  to  the  secret  door 
of  her  dressing-room. 

My  suite,  consisting  of  a  drawing-room,  bedroom,  and  the 
pretty  morning-room  in  scarlet  and  gold,  of  which  I  have 
told  you,  lies  in  the  wing  on  the  side  of  the  Invalides.  The 
house  is  only  separated  from  the  boulevard  by  a  wall,  covered 
with  creepers,  and  by  a  splendid  avenue  of  trees,  which  mingle 
their  foliage  with  that  of  the  young  elms  on  the  sidewalk 
of  the  boulevard.  But  for  the  blue-and-gold  dome  of  the 
Invalides  and  its  gray  stone  mass,  you  might  be  in  a  wood. 

The  style  of  decoration  in  these  rooms,  together  with  their 
situation,  indicates  that  they  were  the  old  show  suite  of  the 
duchesses,  while  the  dukes  must  have  had  theirs  in  the  wing 
opposite.  The  two  suites  are  decorously  separated  by  the 
two  main  blocks,  as  well  as  by  the  central  one,  which  contains 
those  vast,  gloomy,  resounding  halls  shown  me  by  Philippe, 
all  despoiled,  of  their  splendor,  as  in  the  days  of  my  childhood. 

Philippe  grew  quite  confidential  when  he  saw  the  surprise 
depicted  on  my  countenance.  For  you  must  know  that  in  this 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  137 

home  of  diplomacy  the  very  servants  have  a  reserved  and 
mysterious  air.  He  went  on  to  tell  me  that  it  was  expected  a 
law  would  soon  be  passed  restoring  to  the  fugitives  of  the 
Eevolution  the  value  of  their  property,  and  that  my  father 
is  waiting  to  do  up  his  house  till  this  restitution  is  made,  the 
king's  architect  having  estimated  the  damage  at  three  hun- 
dred thousand  livres. 

This  piece  of  news  flung  me  back  despairing  on  my 
drawing-room  sofa.  Could  it  be  that  my  father,  instead  of 
spending  this  money  in  arranging  a  marriage  for  me,  would 
have  left  me  to  die  in  the  convent  ?  This  was  the  first  thought 
to  greet  me  on  the  threshold  of  my  home. 

Ah !  Renee,  what  would  I  have  given  then  to  rest  my  head 
upon  your  shoulder,  or  to  transport  myself  to  the  days  when 
my  grandmother  made  the  life  of  these  rooms?  You  two  in 
all  the  world  have  been  alone  in  loving  me — you  away  at 
Maucombe,  and  she  who  survives  only  in  my  heart,  the  dear 
old  lady,  whose  still  youthful  eyes  used  to  open  from  sleep  at 
my  call.  How  well  we  understood  each  other! 

These  memories  suddenly  changed  my  mood.  What  at 
first  had  seemed  profanation,  now  breathed  of  holy  associa- 
tion. It  was  sweet  to  inhale  the  faint  odor  of  the  powder 
she  loved  still  lingering  in  the  room ;  sweet  to  sleep  beneath 
the  shelter  of  those  yellow  damask  curtains  with  their  white 
pattern,  which  must  have  retained  something  of  the  spirit 
emanating  from  her  eyes  and  breath.  I  told  Philippe  to 
rub  up  the  old  furniture  and  make  the  rooms  look  as  if  they 
were  lived  in ;  I  explained  to  him  myself  how  I  wanted  every- 
thing arranged,  and  where  to  put  each  piece  of  furniture. 
In  this  way  I  entered  into  possession,  and  showed  how  an 
air  of  youth  might  be  given  to  the  dear  old  things. 

The  bedroom  is  white  in  color,  a  little  dulled  with  time, 
just  as  the  gilding  of  the  fanciful  arabesques  shows  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  red:  but  this  effect  harmonizes  well  with 
the  faded  colors  of  the  Savonnerie  tapestry,  which  was  pre- 
sented to  my  grandmother  by  Louis  XV.  along  with  his  por- 
trait. The  timepiece  was  a  gift  from  the  Marechal  de  Saxe, 


138 

and  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  came  from  the 
Marechal  de  Richelieu.  My  grandmother's  portrait,  painted 
at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  hangs  in  an  oval  frame  opposite 
that  of  the  King.  The  Prince,  her  husband,  is  conspicuous 
by  his  absence.  I  like  this  frank  negligence,  untinged  by 
hypocrisy — a  characteristic  touch  which  sums  up  her  charm- 
ing personality.  Once  when  my  grandmother  was  seriously 
ill,  her  confessor  was  urgent  that  the  Prince,  who  was  waiting 
in  the  drawing-room,  should  be  admitted. 

"He  can  come  in  with  the  doctor  and  his  drugs,"  was  the 
reply: 

The  bed  has  a  canopy  and  well-stuffed  back,  and  the  cur- 
tains are  looped  up  with  fine  wide  bands.  The  furniture  is 
of  gilded  wood,  upholstered  in  the  same  yellow  damask  with 
white  flowers  which  drapes  the  windows,  and  which  is  lined 
there  with  a  white  silk  that  looks  as  though  it  were  watered. 
The  panels  over  the  doors  have  been  painted,  by  what  artist 
I  can't  say,  but  they  represent  one  a  sunrise,  the  other  a 
moonlight  scene. 

The  fireplace  is  a  very  interesting  feature  in  the  room. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  life  in  the  last  century  centered  largely 
round  the  hearth,  where  great  events  were  enacted.  The 
copper-gilt  grate  is  a  marvel  of  workmanship,  and  the  mantel- 
piece is  most  delicately  finished ;  the  fire-irons  are  beautifully 
chased;  the  bellows  are  a  perfect  gem.  The  tapestry  of  the 
screen  comes  from  the  Gobelins  and  is  exquisitely  mounted; 
charming  fantastic  figures  run  all  over  the  frame,  on  the 
feet,  the  supporting  bar,  and  the  wings;  the  whole  thing  is 
wrought  like  a  fan. 

Dearly  should  I  like  to  know  who  was  the  giver  of  this 
dainty  work  of  art,  which  was  such  a  favorite  with  her.  How 
often  have  I  seen  the  old  lady,  her  feet  upon  the  bar,  re- 
clining in  the  easy-chair,  with  her  dress  half  raised  in  front,, 
toying  with  the  snuff-box,  which  lay  upon  the  ledge  between 
her  box  of  pastilles  and  her  silk  mits.  What  a  coquette  she 
was !  to  the  day  of  her  death  she  took  as  much  pains  with 
her  appearance  as  though  the  beautiful  portrait  had  been 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  139 

» 

painted  onty  yesterday,  and  she  were  waiting  to  receive  the 
throng  of  exquisites  from  the  Court !  How  the  armchair  re- 
calls to  me  the  inimitable  sweep  of  her  skirts  as  she  sank 
back  in  it ! 

These  women  of  a  past  generation  have  carried  off  with 
them  secrets  which  are  very  typical  of  their  age.  The 
Princess  had  a  certain  turn  of  the  head,  a  way  of  dropping 
her  glance  and  her  remarks,  a  choice  of  words,  which  I  look 
for  in  vain,  even  in  my  mother.  There  was  subtlety  in  it 
all,  and  there  was  good-nature ;  the  points  were  made  without 
any  affectation.  Her  talk  was  at  once  lengthy  and  concise; 
she  told  a  good  story,  and  could  put  her  meaning  in  three 
words.  Above  all,  she  was  extremely  free-thinking,  and 
this  has  undoubtedly  had  its  effect  on  my  way  of  looking  at 
things. 

From  seven  years  old  till  I  was  ten,  I  never  left  her  side; 
it  pleased  her  to  attract  me  as  much  as  it  pleased  me  to  go. 
This  preference  was  the  cause  of  more  than  one  passage  at 
arms  between  her  and  my  mother,  and  nothing  intensifies 
feeling  like  the  icy  breath  of  persecution.  How  charming  was 
her  greeting,  "Here  you  are,  little  rogue !"  when  curiosity  had 
taught  me  how  to  glide  with  stealthy  snake-like  movements 
to  her  room.  She  felt  that  I  loved  her,  and  this  childish  affec- 
tion was  welcome  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  winter  of  her 
life. 

I  don't  know  what  went  on  in  her  rooms  at  night,  but 
she  had  many  visitors;  and  when  I  came  on  tiptoe  in  the 
morning  to  see  if  she  were  awake,  I  would  find  the  drawing- 
room  furniture  disarranged,  the  card-tables  set  out,  and 
patches  of  snuff  scattered  about. 

This  drawing-room  is  furnished  in  the  same  style  as  the 
bedroom.  The  chairs  and  tables  are  oddly  shaped,  with  claw 
feet  and  hollow  mouldings.  Rich  garlands  of  flowers,  beauti- 
fully designed  and  carved,  wind  over  the  mirrors  and  hang 
down  in  festoons.  On  the  consoles  are  fine  china  vases.  The 
ground  colors  are  scarlet  and  white.  My  grandmother  was 
a  high-spirited,  striking  brunette,  as  might  be  inferred  from 


140  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

t> 

her  choice  of  colors.  I  have  found  in  the  drawing-room 
a  writing-table  I  remember  well;  the  figures  on  it  used  to 
fascinate  me ;  it  is  plaited  in  graven  silver,  and  was  a  present 
from  one  of  the  Genoese  Lomellini.  Each  side  of  the  table 
represents  the  occupations  of  a  different  season;  there  are 
hundreds  of  figures  in  each  picture,  and  all  in  relief. 

I  remained  alone  for  two  hours,  while  old  memories  rose 
before  me,  one  after  another,  on  this  spot,  hallowed  by  the 
death  of  a  woman  most  remarkable  even  among  the  witty  and 
beautiful  Court  ladies  of  Louis  XV.'s  day. 

You  know  how  abruptly  I  was  parted  from  her,  at  a  day's 
notice,  in  1816. 

"Go  and  bid  good-bye  to  your  grandmother,"  said  my 
mother. 

The  Princess  received  me  as  usual,  without  any  display 
of  feeling,  and  expressed  no  surprise  at  my  departure. 

"You  are  going  to  the  convent,  dear,"  she  said,  "and  will 
see  your  aunt  there,  who  is  an  excellent  woman.  I  shall 
take  care,  though,  that  they  don't  make  a  victim  of  you; 
you  shall  be  independent,  and  able  to  marry  whom  you 
please." 

Six  months  later  she  died.  Her  will  had  been  given  into 
the  keeping  of  the  Prince  de  Talleyrand,  the  most  devoted 
of  all  her  old  friends.  He  contrived,  while  paying  a  visit 
to  Mile,  de  Chargebreuf,  to  intimate  to  me,  through  her, 
that  my  grandmother  forbade  me  to  take  the  vows.  I  hope, 
sooner  or  later,  to  meet  the  Prince,  and  then  I  shall  doubtless 
learn  more  from  him. 

Thus,  sweetheart,  if  I  have  found  no  one  in  flesh  and 
blood  to  meet  me,  I  have  comforted  myself  with  the  shade 
of  the  dear  Princess,  and  have  prepared  myself  for  carrying 
out  one  of  our  pledges,  which  was,  as  you  know,  to  keep  eacb 
other  informed  of  the  smallest  details  in  our  homes  and 
occupations.  It  makes  such  a  difference  to  know  where  and 
how  the  life  of  one  we  love  is  passed !  Send  me  a  faithful 
picture  of  the  veriest  trifles  around  you,  omitting  nothing, 
not  even  the  sunset  lights  among  the  tall  trees. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  141 

October  Wth. 

It  was  three  in  the  afternoon  when  I  arrived.  About  half- 
past  five,  Eose  came  and  told  me  that  my  mother  had  re- 
turned, so  I  went  downstairs  to  pay  my  respects  to  her. 

My  mother  lives  in  a  suite  on  the  ground  floor,  exactly 
corresponding  to  mine,  and  in  the  same  block.  I  am  just 
over  her  head,  and  the  same  secret  staircase  serves  for  both. 
My  father's  rooms  are  in  the  block  opposite,  but  are  larger 
by  the  whole  of  the  space  occupied  by  the  grand  staircase 
on  our  side  of  the  building.  These  ancestral  mansions  are 
so  spacious,  that  my  father  and  mother  continue  to  occupy  the 
ground-floor  rooms,  in  spite  of  the  social  duties  which  have 
once  more  devolved  on  them  with  the  return  of  the  Bourbons, 
and  are  even  able  to  receive  in  them. 

I  found  my  mother,  dressed  for  the  evening,  in  her 
drawing-room,  where  nothing  is  changed.  I  came  slowly 
down  the  stairs,  speculating  with  every  step  how  I  should 
be  met  by  this  mother  who  had  shown  herself  so  little  of  a 
mother  to  me,  and  from  whom,  during  eight  years,  I  had 
heard  nothing  beyond  the  two  letters  of  which  you  know. 
Judging  it  unworthy  to  simulate  an  affection  I  could  not 
possibly  feel,  I  put  on  the  air  of  a  pious  imbecile,  and  entered 
the  room  with  many  inward  qualms,  which  however  soon 
disappeared.  My  mother's  tact  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
She  made  no  pretence  of  emotion;  she  neither  held  me  at 
arm's-length  nor  huggeu  me  to  her  bosom  like  a  beloved 
daughter,  but  greeted  me  as  though  we  had  parted  the  evening 
before.  Her  manner  was  that  of  the  kindliest  and  most  sin- 
cere friend,  as  she  addressed  me  like  a  grown  person,  first 
"kissing  me  on  the  forehead. 

"My  dear  little  one,"  she  said,  "if  you  were  to  die  at  the 
convent,  it  is  much  better  to  live  with  your  family.  You 
frustrate  your  father's  plans  and  mine ;  but  the  age  of  blind 
obedience  to  parents  is  past.  M.  de  Chaulieu's  intention, 
and  in  this  I  am  quite  at  one  with  him,  is  to  lose  no  oppor- 
tunity of  making  your  life  pleasant  and  of  letting  you  see 
the  world.  At  your  age  I  should  have  thought  as  you  do, 


142  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

therefore  I  am  not  vexed  with  you ;  it  is  impossible  you  should 
understand  what  we  expected  from  you.  You  will  not  find 
any  absurd  severity  in  me;  and  if  you  have  ever  thought 
me  heartless,  •  you  will  soon  find  out  your  mistake.  Still, 
though  I  wish  you  to  feel  perfectly  free,  I  think  that,  to  begin 
with,  you  would  do  well  to  follow  the  counsels  of  a  mother, 
who  wishes  to  be  a  sister  to  you." 

I  was  quite  charmed  by  the  Duchess,  who  talked  in  a  gentle 
voice,  straightening  my  convent  tippet  as  she  spoke.  At  the 
age  of  thirty-eight  she  is  still  exquisitely  beautiful.  She  has 
dark-blue  eyes,  with  silken  lashes,  a  smooth  forehead,  and  a 
complexion  so  pink  and  white  that  you  might  think  she 
paints.  Her  bust  and  shoulders  are  marvelous,  and  her  waist 
is  as  slender  as  yours.  Her  hand  is  milk-white  and  extra- 
ordinarily beautiful;  the  nails  catch  the  light  in  their  perfect 
polish,  the  thumb  is  like  ivory,  the  little  finger  stands  just  a 
little  apart  from  the  rest,  and  the  foot  matches  the  hand;  it 
is  the  Spanish  foot  of  Mile,  de  Vandenesse.  If  she  is  like 
this  at  forty,  at  sixty  she  will  still  be  a  beautiful  woman. 

I  replied,  sweetheart,  like  a  good  little  girl.  I  was  as  nice 
to  her  as  she  to  me,  nay,  nicer.  Her  beauty  completely  van- 
quished me ;  it  seemed  only  natural  that  such  a  woman  should 
be  absorbed  in  her  regal  part.  I  told  her  this  as  simply  as 
though  I  had  been  talking  to  you.  I  daresay  it  was  a  surprise 
to  her  to  hear  words  of  affection  from  her  daughter's  mouth, 
and  the  unfeigned  homage  of  ray  admiration  evidently 
touched  her  deeply.  Her  manner  changed  and  became  even 
more  engaging ;  she  dropped  all  formality  as  she  said : 

"I  am  much  pleased  with  you,  and  I  hope  we  shall  remain 
good  friends." 

The  words  struck  me  as  charmingly  naive,  but  I  did  not  let 
this  appear,  for  I  saw  at  once  that  the  prudent  course  was 
to  allow  her  to  believe  herself  much  deeper  and  cleverer  than 
her  daughter.  So  I  only  stared  vacantly  and ,  she  was  de- 
lighted. I  kissed  her  hands  repeatedly,  telling  her  how  happy 
it  made  me  to  be  so  treated  and  to  feel  at  my  ease  with  her. 
I  even  confided  to  her  my  previous  tremors.  She  smiled, 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  1-13 

put  her  arm  round  my  neck,  and  drawing  me  towards  her, 
kissed  me  on  the  forehead  most  affectionately. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said,  "we  have  people  coming  to  dinner 
to-day.  Perhaps  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  better  for 
you  not  to  make  your  first  appearance  in  society  till  you  have 
heen  in  the  dressmaker's  hands ;  so,  after  you  have  seen  your 
father  and  brother,  you  can  go  upstairs  again." 

I  assented  most  heartily.  My  mother's  exquisite  dress 
was  the  first  revelation  to  me  of  the  world  which  our  dreams 
had  pictured;  but  I  did  not  feel  the  slightest  desire  to  rival 
her. 

My  father  now  entered,  and  the  Duchess  presented  me  to 
him. 

He  became  all  at  once  most  affectionate,  and  played  the 
father's  part  so  well,  that  I  could  not  but  believe  his  heart 
to  be  in  it.  Taking  my  two  hands  in  his,  and  kissing  them, 
with  more  of  the  lover  than  the  father  in  his  manner,  he 
said: 

"So  this  is  my  rebel  daughter!" 

And  he  drew  me  towards  him,  with  his  arm  passed  tenderly 
round  my  waist,  while  he  kissed  me  on  the  cheeks  and  fore- 
head. 

"The  pleasure  with  which  we  shall  watch  your  success 
in  society  will  atone  for  the  disappointment  we  felt  at  your 
change  of  vocation,"  he  said.  Then,  turning  to  my  mother, 
"Do  you  know  that  she  is  going  to  turn  out  very  pretty,  and 
you  will  be  proud  of  her  some  day? — Here  is  your  brother, 
Rhetore. — Alphonse,"  he  said  to  a  fine  young  man  who  came 
in,  "here  is  your  convent-bred  sister,  who  threatens  to  send 
her  nun's  frock  to  the  deuce." 

My  brother  came  up  in  a  leisurely  way  and  took  my  hand, 
which  he  pressed. 

"Come,  come,  you  may  kiss  her,"  said  my  farther. 

And  he  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  take  your  side 
against  my  father." 

I  thanked  him,  but  could  not  help  thinking  he  might  have 


144  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

come  to  Blois  when  he  was  at  Orleans  visiting  our  Marquis 
brother  in  his  quarters. 

Fearing  the  arrival  of  strangers,  I  now  withdrew.  I 
tidied  up  my  rooms,  and  laid  out  on  the  scarlet  velvet  of  my 
lovely  table  all  the  materials  necessary  for  writing  to  you, 
meditating  all  the  while  on  my  new  situation. 

This,  my  fair  sweetheart,  is  a  true  and  veracious  account 
of  the  return  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  after  an  absence  of  nine 
years,  to  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  the  king- 
dom. I  was  tired  by  the  journey  as  well  as  by  all  the  emo- 
tions I  had  been  through,  so  I  went  to  bed  in  convent  fashion, 
at  eight  o'clock,  after  supper.  They  have  preserved  even  a 
little  Saxe  service  which  the  dear  Princess  used  when  she  had 
a  fancy  for  taking  her  meals  alone. 


II 

THE   SAME  TO   THE   SAME 

November  25M. 

NEXT  day  I  found  my  rooms  done  out  and  dusted,  and  even 
flowers  put  in  the  vases,  by  old  Philippe.  I  begin  to  feel  at 
home.  Only  it  didn't  occur  to  anybody  that  a  Carmelite 
schoolgirl  has  an  early  appetite,  and  Rose  had  no  end  of 
trouble  in  getting  breakfast  for  me. 

"Mile,  goes  to  bed  at  dinner-time,"  she  said  to  me,  "and 
gets  up  when  the  Duke  is  just  returning  home." 

I  began  to  write.  About  one  o'clock  my  father  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  small  drawing-room  and  asked  if  he  might 
come  in.  I  opened  the  door;  he  came  in,  and  found  me 
writing  to  you. 

"My  dear,"  he  began,  "you  will  have  to  get  yourself  clothes, 
and  to  make  these  rooms  comfortable.  In  this  purse  you 
will  find  twelve  thousand  francs,  which  is  the  yearly  income 
I  purpose  allowing  you  for  your  expenses.  You  will  make 
arrangements  with  your  mother  as  to  some  governess  whom 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  145 

you  may  like,  in  case  Miss  Griffith  doesn't  please  you,  for 
Mme.  de  Chaulieu  will  not  have  time  to  go  out  with  you 
in  the  mornings.  A  carriage  and  man-servant  shall  be  at 
your  disposal." 

"Let  me  keep  Philippe,"  I  said. 

"So  be  it,"  he  replied.  "But  don't  be  uneasy;  you  have 
money  enough  of  your  own  to  be  no  burden  either  to  your 
mother  or  me." 

"May  I  ask  how  much  I  have  ?" 

"Certainly,  my  child,"  he  said.  "Your  grandmother  left 
you  five  hundred  thousand  francs;  this  was  the  amount  of 
her  savings,  for  she  would  not  alienate  a  foot  of  land  from 
the  family.  This  sum  has  been  placed  in  Government 
stock,  and,  with  the  accumulated  interest,  now  brings  in  about 
forty  thousand  francs  a  year.  With  this  I  had  purposed 
making  an  independence  for  your  second  brother,  and  it 
is  here  that  you  have  upset  my  plans.  Later,  however,  it  is 
possible  that  you  may  fall  in  with  them.  It  shall  rest  with 
yourself,  for  I  have  confidence  in  your  good  sense  far  more 
than  I  had  expected. 

"I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  how  a  daughter  of  -the  Chaulieus 
ought  to  behave.  The  pride  so  plainly  written  in  your  features 
is  my  best  guarantee.  Safeguards,  such  as  common  folk 
surround  their  daughters  with,  would  be  an  insult  in  our 
family.  A  slander  reflecting  on  your  name  might  cost  the 
life  of  the  man  bold  enough  to  utter  it,  or  the  life  of  one 
of  your  brothers,  if  by  chance  the  right  should  not  prevail. 
No  more  on  this  subject.  Good-bye,  little  one." 

He  kissed  me  on  the  forehead  and  went  out.  I  cannot 
understand  the  relinquishment  of  this  plan  after  nine  years' 
persistence  in  it.  My  father's  frankness  is  what  I  like. 
There  is  no  ambiguity  about  his  words.  My  money  ought  to 
belong  to  his  Marquis  son.  Who,  then,  has  had  bowels  of 
mercy?  My  mother?  My  father?  Or  could  it  be  my 
brother  ? 

I  remained  sitting  on  my  grandmother's  sofa,  staring  at 
the  purse  which  my  father  had  left  on  the  mantelpiece,  at 


146  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

once  pleased  and  vexed  that  I  could  not  withdraw  my  mind 
from  the  money.  It  is  true,  further  speculation  was  useless. 
My  doubts  had  been  cleared  up  and  there  was  something  fine 
in  the  way  my  pride  was  spared. 

Philippe  has  spent  the  morning  rushing  about  among  the 
various  shops  and  workpeople  who  are  to  undertake  the  task 
of  my  metamorphosis.  A  famous  dressmaker,  by  name  Vic- 
torine,  has  come,  as  well  as  a  woman  for  underclothing,  and 
a  shoemaker.  I  am  as  impatient  as  a  child  to  know  what 
I  shall  be  like  when  I  emerge  from  the  sack  which  constituted 
the  conventual  uniform;  but  all  these  tradespeople  take  a 
long  time;  the  corset-maker  requires  a  whole  week  if  my 
figure  is  not  to  be  spoilt.  You  see,  I  have  a  figure,  dear;  this 
becomes  serious.  Janssen,  the  Operatic  shoemaker,  solemnly 
assures  me  that  I  have  my  mother's  foot.  The  whole  morn- 
ing has  gone  in  these  weighty  occupations.  Even  a  glove- 
maker  has  come  to  take  the  measure  of  my  hand.  The  under- 
clothing woman  has  got  my  orders. 

At  the  meal  which  I  call  dinner,  and  the  others  lunch,  my 
mother  told  me  that  we  were  going  together  to  the  milliner's 
to  see  some  hats,  so  that  my  taste  should  be  formed,  and  I 
might  be  in  a  position  to  order  my  own. 

This  burst  of  independence  dazzles  me.  I  am  like  a  blind 
man  who  has  just  recovered  his  sight.  Now  I  begin  to  under- 
stand the  vast  interval  which  separates  a  Carmelite  sister 
from  a  girl  in  society.  Of  ourselves  we  could  never  have 
conceived  it. 

During  this  lunch  my  father  seemed  absent-minded,  and 
we  left  him  to  his  thoughts ;  he  is  deep  in  the  King's  confi- 
dence. I  was  entirely  forgotten;  but,  from  what  I  have 
seen,  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  remember  me  when  he  has  need 
of  me.  He  is  a  very  attractive  man  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years. 
His  figure  is  youthful;  he  is  well  made,  fair,  and  extremely 
graceful  in  his  movements.  He  has  a  diplomatic  face,  at  once 
dumb  and  expressive ;  his  nose  is  long  and  slender,  and  he  has 
brown  eyes. 

What  a  handsome  pair!     Strange  thoughts  assail  me  as 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  147 

it  becomes  plain  to  me  that  these  two,  so  perfectly  matched 
in  birth,  wealth,  and  mental  superiority,  live  entirely  apart, 
and  have  nothing  in  common  but  their  name.  The  show 
of  unity  is  only  for  the  world. 

The  cream  of  the  Court  and  diplomatic  circles  were  here 
lagt  night.  Very  soon  I  am  going  to  a  ball  given  by  the 
Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  and  I  shall  be  presented  to  the 
society  I  am  so  eager  to  know.  A  dancing-master  is  coming 
every  morning  to  give  me  lessons,  for  I  must  be  able  to  dance 
in  a  month,  or  I  can't  go  to  the  ball. 

Before  dinner,  my  mother  came  to  talk  about  the  governess 
with  me.  I  have  decided  to  keep  Miss  Griffith,  who  was  rec- 
ommended by  the  English  ambassador.  Miss  Griffith  is  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman;  her  mother  was  of  good  family, 
and  she  is  perfectly  well  bred.  She  is  thirty-six,  and  will 
teach  me  English.  The  good  soul  is  quite  handsome  enough 
to  have  ambitions;  she  is  Scotch — poor  and  proud — and  will 
act  as  my  chaperon.  She  is  to  sleep  in  Hose's  room.  Eose 
will  be  under  her  orders.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  my  governess 
would  be  governed  by  me.  In  the  six  days  we  have  been 
together,  she  has  made  very  sure  that  I  am  the  only  person 
likely  to  take  an  interest  in  her;  while,  for  my  part,  I  have 
ascertained  that,  for  all  her  statuesque  features,  she  will  prove 
accommodating.  She  seems  to  me  a  kindly  soul,  but  cautious. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  extract  a  word  of  what  passed  between 
her  and  my  mother. 

Another  trifling  piece  of  news !  My  father  has  this  morn- 
ing refused  the  appointment  as  Minister  of  State  which  was 
offered  him.  This  accounts  for  his  preoccupied  manner  last 
night.  He  says  he  would  prefer  an  embassy  to  the  worries 
of  public  debate.  Spain  in  especial  attracts  him. 

This  news  was  told  me  at  lunch,  the  one  moment  of  the 
day  when  my  father,  mother,  and  brother  see  each  other 
in  an  easy  way.  The  servants  then  only  come  when  they 
are  rung  for.  The  rest  of  the  day  my  brother,  as  well  as 
my  father,  spends  out  of  the  house.  My  mother  has  her  toilet 
to  nmke;  between  two  and  four  she  is  never  visible;  at  four 


148  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

o'clock  she  goes  out  for  an  hour's  drive;  when  she  is  not 
dining  out,  she  receives  from  six  to  seven,  and  the  evening  is 
given  to  entertainments  of  various  kinds — theatres,  balls, 
concerts,  at  homes.  In  short,  her  life  is  so  full,  that  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  has  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  herself.  She  must 
spend  a  considerable  time  dressing  in  the  morning;  for  at 
lunch,  which  takes  place  between  eleven  and  twelve,  she  is 
exquisite.  The  meaning  of  the  things  that  are  said  about 
her  is  dawning  on  me.  She  begins  the  day  with  a  bath  barely  • 
warmed,  and  a  cup  of  cold  coffee  with  cream;  then  she 
dresses.  She  is  never,  except  on  some  great  emergency,  called 
before  nine  o'clock.  In  summer  there  are  morning  rides,  and 
at  two  o'clock  she  receives  a  young  man  whom  I  have  never 
yet  contrived  to  see. 

Behold  our  family  life !  We  meet  at  lunch  and  dinner, 
though  often  I  am  alone  with  my  mother  at  this  latter  meal, 
and  I  foresee  that  still  oftener  I  shall  take  it  in  my  own 
rooms  (following  the  example  of  my  grandmother)  with  only 
Miss  Griffith  for  company,  for  my  mother  frequently  dines 
out.  I  have  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  indifference  my  family 
have  shown  to  me.  In  Paris,  my  dear,  it  is  a  miracle  of  virtue 
to  love  the  people  who  live  with  you,  for  you  see  little  enough 
of  them ;  as  for  the  absent — they  do  not  exist ! 

Knowing  as  this  may  sound,  I  have  not  yet  set  foot  in  the 
streets,  and  am  deplorably  ignorant.  I  must  wait  till  I  am 
less  of  the  country  cousin  and  have  brought  my  dress  and 
deportment  into  keeping  with  the  society  I  am  about  to 
enter,  the  whirl  of  which  amazes  me  even  here,  where  only  dis- 
tant murmurs  reach  my  ear.  So  far  I  have  not  gone  beyond 
the  garden;  but  the  Italian  opera  opens  in  a  few  days,  and 
my  mother  has  a  box  there.  I  am  crazy  with  delight  at  the 
thought  of  hearing  Italian  music  and  seeing  French  acting. 

Already  I  begin  to  drop  convent  habits  for  those  of  society. 
I  spend  the  evening  writing  to  you  till  the  moment  for  going 
to  bed  arrives.  This  has  been  postponed  to  ten  o'clock,  the 
hour  at  which  my  mother  goes  out,  if  she  is  not  at  the 
theatre.  There  are  twelve  theatres  in  Paris. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  149 

I  am  grossly  ignorant  and  I  read  a  lot,  but  quite  indis- 
criminately, one  book  leading  to  another.  I  find  the  names 
of  fresh  books  on  the  cover  of  the  one  I  am  reading;  but  as 
I  have  no  one  to  direct  me,  I  light  on  some  which  are  fear- 
fully dull.  What  modern  literature  I  have  read  all  turns 
upon  love,  the  subject  which  used  to  bulk  so  largely  in  our 
thoughts,  because  it  seemed  that  our  fate  was  determined  by 
man  and  for  man.  But  how  inferior  are  these  authors  to 
two  little  girls,  known  as  Sweetheart  and  Darling — otherwise 
Eenee  and  Louise.  Ah !  my  love,  what  wretched  plots,  what 
ridiculous  situations,  and  what  poverty  of  sentiment !  Two 
books,  however,  have  given  me  wonderful  pleasure — Corinne 
and  Adolphe.  Apropos  of  this,  I  asked  my  father  one  day 
whether  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to  see  Mme.  de  Stae'l. 
My  father,  mother,  and  Alphonse  all  burst  out  laughing,  and 
Alphonse  said : 

"Where  in  the  world  has  she  sprung  from  ?" 

To  which  my  father  replied : 

"What  fools  we  are !    She  springs  from  the  Carmelites." 

"My  child,  Mme.  de  Stae'l  is  dead,"  said  my  mother  gently. 

When  I  had  finished  Adolphe,  I  asked  Miss  Griffith  how  a 
woman  could  be  betrayed. 

"Why,  of  course,  when  she  loves,"  was  her  reply. 

Kenee,  tell  me,  do  you  think  we  could  be  betrayed  by  a 
man? 

Miss  Griffith  has  at  last  discerned  that  I  am  not  an  utter 
ignoramus,  that  I  have  somewhere  a  hidden  vein  of  knowledge, 
the  knowledge  we  learned  from  each  other  in  our  random 
arguments.  She  sees  that  it  is  only  superficial  facts  of  which 
I  am  ignorant.  The  poor  thing  has  opened  her  heart  to  me. 
Her  curt  reply  to  my  question,  when  I  compare  it  with  all 
the  sorrows  I  can  imagine,  makes  me  feel  quite  creepy.  Once 
more  she  urged  me  not  to  be  dazzled  by  the  glitter  of  society, 
to  be  always  on  my  guard,  especially  against  what  most  at- 
tracted me.  This  is  the  sum-total  of  her  wisdom,  and  I  can 
get  nothing  more  out  of  her.  Her  lectures,  therefore,  become 
a,  trifle  monotonous,  and  she  might  be  compared  in  this  re- 
spect to  the  bird  which  has  only  one  cry. 


i50  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

III 

THE   SAME   TO   THE   SAME 

December. 

MY  DARLING, — Here  I  am  ready  to  make  my  bow  to  the 
world.  By  way  of  preparation  I  have  been  trying  to  commit 
all  the  follies  I  could  think  of  before  sobering  down  for  my 
entry.  This  morning,  I  have  seen  myself,  after  many  re- 
hearsals, well  and  duly  equipped — stays,  shoes,  curls,  dress, 
ornaments, — all  in  order.  Following  the  example  of  duelists 
before  a  meeting,  I  tried  my  arms  in  the  privacy  of  my  cham- 
ber. I  wanted  to  see  how  I  would  look,  and  had  no  difficulty 
in  discovering  a  certain  air  of  victory  and  triumph,  bound  to 
carry  all  before  it.  I  mustered  all  my  forces,  in  accordance 
with  that  splendid  maxim  of  antiquity,  "Know  thyself !"  and 
boundless  was  my  delight  in  thus  making  my  own  acquaint- 
ance. Griffith  was  the  sole  spectator  of  this  doll's  play,  in 
which  I  was  at  once  doll  and  child.  You  think  you  know  me  ? 
You  are  hugely  mistaken. 

Here  is  a  portrait,  then,  Eenee,  of  your  sister,  formerly 
disguised  as  a  Carmelite,  now  brought  to  life  again  as  a  frivo- 
lous society  girl.  She  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in 
France — Provence,  of  course,  excepted.  I  don't  see  that  I 
can  give  a  more  accurate  summary  of  this  interesting  topic. 

True,  I  have  my  weak  points ;  but  were  I  a*  man,  I  should 
adore  them.  They  arise  from  what  is  most  promising  in 
me.  When  you  have  spent  a  fortnight  admiring  the  ex- 
quisite curves  of  your  mother's  arms,  and  that  mother  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  it  is  impossible,  my  dear,  not  to  deplore 
your  own  angular  elbows.  Yet  there  is  consolation  in  ob- 
serving the  fineness  of  the  wrist,  and  a  certain  grace  of  line 
in  those  hollows,  which  will  yet  fill  out  and  show  plump, 
round,  and  well  modeled,  under  the  satiny  skin.  The  some- 
what crude  outline  of  the  arms  is  seen  again  in  the  shoulders. 
Strictly  speaking,  indeed,  I  have  no  shoulders,  but  only  two 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  151 

bony  blades,  standing  out  in  harsh  relief.  My  figure  also 
lacks  pliancy ;  there  is  a  stiffness  about  the  side  lines. 

Poof !  There's  the  worst  out.  But  then  the  contours  are 
bold  and  delicate,  the  bright,  pure  flame  of  health  bites  into 
the  vigorous  lines,  a  flood  of  life  and  of  blue  blood  pulses 
under  the  transparent  skin,  and  the  fairest  daughter  of  Eve 
would  seem  a  negress  beside  me !  I  have  the  foot  of  a  gazelle ! 
My  joints  are  finely  turned,  my  features  of  a  Greek  correct- 
ness. It  is  true,  madame,  that  the  flesh  tints  do  not  melt 
into  each  other;  but,  at  least,  they  stand  out  clear  and  bright. 
In  short,  I  am  a  very  pretty  green,  fruit,  with  all  the  charm 
of  unripeness.  I  see  a  great  likeness  to  the  face  in  my  aunt's 
old  missal,  which  rises  out  of  a  violet  lily. 

There  is  no  silly  weakness  in  the  blue  of  my  insolent  eyes ; 
the  white  is  pure  mother-of-pearl,  prettily  marked  with  tiny 
veins,  and  the  thick,  long  lashes  fall  like  a  silken  fringe. 
My  forehead  sparkles,  and  the  hair  grows  deliciously;  it 
ripples  into  waves  of  pale  gold,  growing  browner  towards  the 
centre,  whence  escape  little  rebel  locks,  which  alone  would  tell 
that  my  fairness  is  not  of  the  insipid  and  hysterical  type.  I 
am  a  tropical  blonde,  with  plenty  of  blood  in  -my  veins,  a 
blonde  more  apt  to  strike  than  to  turn  the  cheek.  What  do 
you  think  the  hairdresser  proposed?  He  wanted,  if  you 
please,  to  smooth  my  hair  into  two  bands,  and  place  over  my 
forehead  a  pearl,  kept  in  place  by  a  gold  chain!  He  said 
it  would  recall  the  Middle  Ages. 

I  told  him  I  was  not  aged  enough  to  have  reached  the 
middle,  or  to  need  an  ornament  to  freshen  me  up ! 

The  nose  is  slender,  and  the  well-cut  nostrils  are  separated 
by  a  sweet  little  pink  partition — an  imperious,  mocking  nose, 
with  a  tip  too  sensitive  ever  to  grow  fat  or  red.  Sweetheart, 
if  this  won't  find  a  husband  for  a  dowerless  maiden,  I'm  a 
donkey.  The  ears  are  daintily  curled,  a  pearl  hanging  from 
either  lobe  would  show  yellow.  The  neck  is  long,  and  has  an 
undulating  motion  full  of  dignity.  In  the  shade  the  white 
ripens  to  a  golden  tinge.  Perhaps  the  mouth  is  a  little  large. 
But  how  expressive !  what  a  color  on  the  lips !  how  prettily  the 
teeth  laugh  I 


152  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Then,  dear,  there  is  a  harmony  running  through  all.  What 
a  gait !  what  a  voice !  We  have  not  forgotten  how  our  grand- 
mother's skirts  fell  into  place  without  a  touch.  In  a  word, 
I  am  lovely  and  charming.  When  the  mood  comes,  I  can 
laugh  one  of  our  good  old  laughs,  and  no  one  will  think  the 
less  of  me ;  the  dimples,  impressed  by  Comedy's  light  fingers 
on  my  fair  cheeks,  will  command  respect.  Or  I  can  let  my 
eyes  fall  and  my  heart  freeze  under  my  snowy  brows.  I  can 
pose  as  a  Madonna  with  melancholy,  swan-like  neck,  and  the 
painters'  virgins  will  be  nowhere;  my  place  in  heaven  would 
be  far  above  them.  A  man  would  be  forced  to  chant  when 
he  spoke  to  me. 

So,  you  see,  my  panoply  is  complete,  and  I  can  run  the 
whole  gamut  of  coquetry  from  deepest  bass  to  shrillest  treble. 
It  is  a  huge  advantage  not  to  be  all  of  one  piece.  Now, 
my  mother  is  neither  playful  nor  virginal.  Her  only  attitude 
is  an  imposing  one;  when  she  ceases  to  be  majestic,  she  is 
ferocious.  It  is  difficult  for  her  to  heal  the  wounds  she  ma]  33, 
whereas  I  can  wound  and  heal  together.  We  are  absolut  ely 
unlike,  and  therefore  there  could  not  possibly  be  rivalry  oe- 
tween  us,  unless  indeed  we  quarreled  over  the  greater  or  ess 
perfection  of  our  extremities,  which  are  similar.  I  take 
after  my  father,  who  is  shrewd  and  subtle.  I  have  the  manner 
of  my  grandmother  and  her  charming  voice,  which  becomes 
falsetto  when  forced,  but  is  a  sweet-toned  chest  voice  at  tne 
ordinary  pitch  of  a  quiet  talk. 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  left  the  convent  to-day  for  the  first  timtj- 
For  society  I  do  not  yet  exist ;  I  am  unknown  to  it.  What  a 
ravishing  moment !  I  still  belong  only  to  myself,  lixe  a 
flower  just  blown,  unseen  yet  of  mortal  eye. 

In  spite  of  this,  my  sweet,  as  I  paced  the  drawing-room 
during  my  self-inspection,  and  saw  the  poor  cast-off  school- 
clothes,  a  queer  feeling  came  over  me.  Kegret  for  the  past, 
anxiety  about  the  future,  fear  of  society,  a  long  farewell  to 
the  pale  daisies  which  we  used  to  pick  and  strip  of  their 
petals  in  light-hearted  innocence,  there  was  something  of  all 
that;  but  strange,  fantastic  visions  also  rose,  which  I  cruaaed 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  153 

back  into  the  inner  depths,  whence  they  had  sprung,  and 
whither  I  dared  not  follow  them. 

My  Kenee,  I  have  a  regular  trousseau  !  It  is  all  beautifully 
laid  away  and  perfumed  in  the  cedar-wood  drawers  with 
lacquered  front  of  my  charming  dressing-table.  There  are 
ribbons,  shoes,  gloves,  all  in  lavish  abundance.  My  father 
has  kindly  presented  me  with  the  pretty  gewgaws  a  girl  loves 
— a  dressing-case,  toilet  service,  scent-box,  fan,  sunshade, 
prayer-book,  gold  chain,  cashmere  shawl.  He  has  also  prom- 
ised to  give  me  riding  lessons.  And  I  can  dance !  To-morrow, 
yes,  to-morrow  evening,  I  come  out ! 

My  dress  is  white  muslin,  and  on  my  head  I  wear  a  garland 
of  white  roses  in  Greek  style.  I  shall  put  on  my  Madonna 
face;  I  mean  to  play  the  simpleton,  and  have  all  the  women 
on  my  side.  My  mother  is  miles  away  from  any  idea  of  what 
I  write  to  you.  She  believes  me  quite  destitute  of  mind,  and 
would  be  dumfounded  if  she  read  my  letter.  My  brother 
honors  me  with  a  profound  contempt,  and  is  uniformly  and 
politely  indifferent. 

He  is  a  handsome  young  fellow,  but  melancholy,  and  given 
to  moods.  I  have  divined  his  secret,  though  neither  the  Duke 
nor  Duchess  has  an  inkling  of  it.  In  spite  of  his  youth  and 
his  title,  he  is  jealous  of  his  father.  He  has  no  position  in 
the  State,  no  post  at  Court,  he  never  has  to  say,  "I  am 
going  to  the  Chamber."  I  alone  in  the  house  have  sixteen 
hours  for  meditation.  My  father  is  absorbed  in  public  busi- 
ness and  his  own  amusements;  my  mother,  too,  is  never  at 
leisure;  no  member  of  the  household  practises  self-examina- 
tion, they  are  constantly  in  company,  and  have  hardly  time 
to  live. 

I  should  immensely  like  to  know  what  is  the  potent  charm 
wielded  by  society  to  keep  people  prisoner  from  nine  every 
evening  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning,,  and  force  them 
to  be  so  lavish  alike  of  strength  and  money.  When  I  longed 
for  it,  I  had  no  idea  of  the  separations  it  brought  about,  or 
its  overmastering  spell.  But,  then,  I  forget,  it  is  Paris  which 
does,  it  all. 


154  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

It  is  possible,  it  seems,  for  members  of  one  family  to 
side  by  side  and  know  absolutely  nothing  of  each  other.  A 
half-fledged  nun  arrives,  and  in  a  couple  of  weeks  has  grasped 
domestic  details,  of  which  the  master  diplomatist  at  the  head 
of  the  house  is  quite  ignorant.  Or  perhaps  he  does  see,  and 
shuts  his  eyes  deliberately,  as  part  of  the  father's  role.  There 
is  a  mystery  here  which  I  must  plumb. 


IV 

THE   SAME  TO   THE   SAME 

December  15th. 

YESTERDAY,  at  two  o'clock,  I  went  to  drive  in  the  Champs- 
Elysees  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  It  was  one  of  those  au- 
tumn days  which  we  used  to  find  so  beautiful  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire.  So  I  have  seen  Paris  at  last !  The  Place  Louis 
XV.  is  certainly  very  fine,  but  the  beauty  is  that  of  man's 
handiwork. 

I  was  dressed  to  perfection,  pensive,  with  set 'face  (though 
inwardly  much  tempted  to  laugh),  under  a  lovely  hat,  my 
arms  crossed.  Would  you  believe  it?  Not  a  single  smile 
was  thrown  at  me,  not  one  poor  youth  was  struck  motionless 
as  I  passed,  not  a  soul  turned  to  look  again ;  and  yet  the  car- 
riage proceeded  with  a  deliberation  worthy  of  my  pose. 

No,  I  am  wrong,  there  was  one — a  duke,  and  a  charming 
man — who  suddenly  reined  in  as  we  went  by.  The  individual 
who  thus  saved  appearances  for  me  was  my  father,  and  he 
proclaimed  himself  highly  gratified  by  what  he  saw.  I  met 
my  mother  also,  who  sent  me  a  butterfly  kiss  from  the  tips 
of  her  fingers.  The  worthy  Griffith,  who  fears  no  man,  cast 
her  glances  hither  and  thither  without  discrimination.  In 
my  judgment,  a  young  woman  should  always  know  exactly 
what  her  eye  is  resting  on! 

I  was  mad  with  rage.  One  man  actually  inspected  my 
carriage  without  noticing  me.  This  flattering  homage  proba- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  155 

bly  came  from  a  carriage-maker.  I  have  been  quite  out  in 
the  reckoning  of  my  forces.  Plainly,  beauty,  that  rare  gift 
which  comes  from  heaven,  is  commoner  in  Paris  than  I 
thought.  I  saw  hats  doffed  with  deference  to  simpering  fools ; 
a  purple  face  called  forth  murmurs  of,  "It  is  she !"  My 
mother  received  an  immense  amount  of  admiration.  There  is 
an  answer  to  this  problem,  and  I  mean  to  find  it. 

The  men,  my  dear,  seemed  to  me  generally  very  ugly. 
The  few  exceptions  are  bad  copies  of  us.  Heaven  knows 
what  evil  genius  has  inspired  their  costume;  it  is  amazingly 
inelegant  compared  with  those  of  former  generations.  It  has 
no  distinction,  no  beauty  of  color  or  romance;  it  appeals 
neither  to  the  senses,  nor  the  mind,  nor  the  eye,  and  it  must 
be  very  uncomfortable.  It  is  meagre  and  stunted.  The  hat, 
above  all,  struck  me;  it  is  a  sort  of  truncated  column,  and 
does  not  adapt  itself  in  the  least  to  the  shape  of  the  head; 
but  I  am  told  it  is  easier  to  bring  about  a  revolution  than  to 
invent  a  graceful  hat.  Courage  in  Paris  recoils  before  the 
thought  of  appearing  in  a  round  felt;  and  for  lack  of  one 
day's  daring,,  men  stick  all  their  lives  to  this  ridiculous  head- 
piece. And  yet  Frenchmen  are  said  to  be  fickle ! 

The  men  are  hideous  any  way,  whatever  they  put  on  their 
heads.  I  have  seen  nothing  but  worn,  hard  faces,  with  no 
calm  nor  peace  in  the  expression ;  the  harsh  lines  and  furrows 
speak  of  foiled  ambition  and  smarting  vanity.  A  fine  fore- 
head is  rarely  seen. 

"And  these  are  the  product  of  Paris !"  I  said  to  Miss 
Griffith. 

"Most  cultivated  and  pleasant  men,"  she  replied. 

I  was  silent.  The  heart  of  a  spinster  of  thirty-six  is  a  well 
of  tolerance. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  ball,  where  I  kept  close  to 
my  mother's  side.  She  gave  me  her  arm  with  a  devotion 
which  did  not  miss  its  reward.  All  the  honors  were  for  her; 
I  was  made  the  pretext  for  charming  compliments.  She 
was  clever  enough  to  find  me  fools  for  my  partners,  who  one 
and  all  expatiated  on  the  heat  and  the  beauty  of  the  ball,  till 


1S6 

you  might  suppose  I  was  freezing  and  blind.  Not  one  failed 
to  enlarge  on  the  strange,  unheard-of,  extraordinary,  odd,  re- 
markable fact — that  he  saw  me  for  the  first  time. 

My  dress,  which  dazzled  me  as  I  paraded  alone  in  my  white- 
and-gold  drawing-room,  was  barely  noticeable  amidst  the  gor- 
geous finery  of  most  of  the  married  women.  Each  had  her 
band  of  faithful  followers,  and  they  all  watched  each  other 
askance.  A  few  were  radiant  in  triumphant  beauty,  and 
amongst  these  was  my  mother.  A  girl  at  a  ball  is  a  mere 
dancing-machine — a  thing  of  no  consequence  whatever. 

The  men,  with  rare  exceptions,  did  not  impress  me  more 
favorably  here  than  at  the  Champs-Elysees.  They  have  a  used- 
up  look ;  their  features  are  meaningless,  or  rather  they  have  all 
the  same  meaning.  The  proud,  stalwart  bearing  which  we 
find  in  the  portraits  of  our  ancestors — men  who  joined  moral 
to  physical  vigor — has  disappeared.  Yet  in  this  gathering 
there  was  one  man  of  remarkable  ability,  who  stood  out  from 
the  rest  by  the  beauty  of  his  face.  But  even  he  did  not  rouse 
in  me  the  feeling  which  I  should  have  expected.  I  do  not 
know  his  works,  and  he  is  a  man  of  no  family.  Whatever  the 
genius  and  the  merits  of  a  plebeian  or  a  commoner,  he  could 
never  stir  my  blood.  Besides,  this  man  was  obviously  so  much 
more  taken  up  with  himself  than  with  anybody  else,  that  I 
could  not  but  think  these  great  brain- workers  must  look  on  us 
as  things  rather  than  persons.  When  men  of  intellectual 
power  love,  they  ought  to  give  up  writing,  otherwise  their  love 
is  not  the  real  thing.  The  lady  of  their  heart  does  not  come 
first  in  all  their  thoughts.  I  seemed  to  read  all  this  in  the 
bearing  of  the  man  I  speak  of.  I  am  told  he  is  a  professor, 
orator,  and  author,  whose  ambition  makes  him  the  slave  of 
every  bigwig. 

My  mind  was  made  up  on  the  spot.  It  was  unworthy  of 
me,  I  determined,  to  quarrel  with  society  for  not  being  im- 
pressed by  my  merits,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  simple 
pleasure  of  dancing,  which  I  thoroughly  enjoyed.  I  heard  a 
great  deal  of  inept  gossip  about  people  of  whom  I  knew 
nothing;  but  perhaps  it  is  my  ignorance  on  many  subjects 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  157 

which  prevents  me  from  appreciating  it,  as  I  saw  that  most 
men  and  women  took  a  lively  pleasure  in  certain  remarks, 
whether  falling  from  their  own  lips  or  those  of  others.  So- 
ciety bristles  with  enigmas  which  look  hard  to  solve.  It  is 
a  perfect  maze  of  intrigue.  Yet  I  am  fairly  quick  of  sight 
and  hearing,  and  as  to  my  wits,  Mile,  de  Maucombe  does  not 
need  to  be  told ! 

I  returned  home  tired  with  a  pleasant  sort  of  tiredness, 
and  in  all  innocence  began  describing  my  sensations  to  my 
mother,  who  was  with  me.  She  checked  me  with  the  warning 
that  I  must  never  say  such  things  to  any  one  but  her. 

"My  dear  child/'  she  added,  "it  needs  as  much  tact  to  know 
when  to  be  silent  as  when  to  speak." 

This  advice  brought  home  to  me  the  nature  of  the  sensations 
which  ought  to  be  concealed  from  every  one,  not  excepting 
perhaps  even  a  mother.  At  a  glance  I  measured  the  vast 
field  of  feminine  duplicity.  I  can  assure  you,  sweetheart,  that 
we,  in  our  unabashed  simplicity,  would  pass  for  two  very 
wide-awake  little  scandal-mongers.  What  lessons  may  be  con- 
veyed in  a  finger  on  the  lips,  in  a  word,  a  look!  All  in  a 
moment  I  was  seized  with  excessive  shyness.  What !  may  I 
never  again  speak  of  the  natural  pleasure  I  feel  in  the  exercise 
of  dancing  ?  "How  then,"  I  said  to  myself,  "about  the  deeper 
feelings  ?" 

I  went  to  bed  sorrowful,  and  I  still  suffer  from  the  shock 
produced  by  this  first  collision  of  my  frank,  joyous  nature 
with  the  harsh  laws  of  society.  Already  the  highway  hedges 
are  necked  with  my  white  wool!  Farewell,  beloved. 


DE  MAUCOMBE  TO  LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU 

October. 

How  deeply  your  letter  moved  me ;  above  all,  when  I  compare 
our  widely  different  destinies !  How  brilliant  is  the  world 
you  are  entering,  how  peaceful  the  retreat  where  I  shal]  end 
my  modest  career! 


168  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

In  the  Castle  of  Maucombe,  which  is  so  well  known  to  you 
by  description  that  I  shall  say  no  more  of  it.  I  found  my 
room  almost  exactly  as  I  left  it;  only  now  I  can  enjoy  the 
splendid  view  it  gives  of  the  Gemenos  valley,  which  my  child- 
ish eyes  used  to  see  without  comprehending.  A  fortnight 
after  my  arrival,  my  father  and  mother  took  me,  along  with 
my  two  brothers,  to  dine  with  one  of  our  neighbors,  M.  de 
1'Estorade,  an  old  gentleman  of  good  family,  who  has  made 
himself  rich,  after  the  provincial  fashion,  by  scraping  and 
paring. 

M.  de  1'Estorade  was  unable  to  save  his  only  son  from  the 
clutches  of  Bonaparte;  after  successfully  eluding  the  con- 
scription, he  was  forced  to  send  him  to  the  army  in  1813, 
to  join  the  Emperor's  bodyguard.  After  Leipsic  no  more 
was  heard  of  him.  M.  de  Montriveau,  whom  the  father  in- 
terviewed in  1814,  declared  that  he  had  seen  him  taken  by 
the  Russians.  Mme.  de  1'Estorade  died  of  grief  whilst  a  vain 
search  was  being  made  in  Russia.  The  Baron,  a  very  pious 
old  man,  practised  that  fine  theological  virtue  which  we  used 
to  cultivate  at  Blois — Hope !  Hope  made  him  see  his  son  in 
dreams.  He  hoarded  his  income  for  him,  and  guarded  care- 
fully the  portion  of  inheritance  which  fell  to  him  from  the 
family  of  the  late  Mme.  de  1'Estorade,  no  one  venturing  to 
ridicule  the  old  man. 

At  last  it  dawned  upon  me  that  the  unexpected  return  of 
this  son  was  the  cause  of  my  own.  Who  could  have  imagined, 
whilst  fancy  was  leading  us  a  giddy  dance,  that  my  destined 
husband  was  slowly  traveling  on  foot  through  Russia,  Poland, 
and  Germany?  His  bad  luck  only  forsook  him  at  Berlin, 
where  the  French  Minister  helped  his  return  to  his  native 
country.  M.  de  1'Estorade,  the  father,  who  is  a  small  landed 
proprietor  in  Provence,  with  an  income  of  about  ten  thousand 
livres,  has  not  sufficient  European  fame  to  interest  the  world 
in  the  wandering  Knight  de  1'Estorade,  whose  name  smacks 
of  his  adventures. 

The  accumulated  income  of  twelve  thousand  livres  from  the 
property  of  Mme.  de  1'Estorade,  with  the  addition  of  the 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  151 

father's  savings,  provides  the  poor  guard  of  honor  with  some- 
thing like  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  livres,  not  counting 
house  and  lands — quite  a  considerable  fortune  in  Provence. 
His  worthy  father  had  bought,  on  the  very  eve  of  the  Cheva- 
lier's return,  a  fine  but  badly-managed  estate,  where  he  de- 
signs to  plant  ten  thousand  mulberry-trees,  raised  in  his  nur- 
sery with  a  special  view  to  this  acquisition.  The  Baron,  hav- 
ing found  his  long-lost  son,  has  now  but  one  thought,  to  marry 
him,  and  marry  him  to  a  girl  of  good  family. 

My  father  and  mother  entered  into  their  neighbor's  idea 
with  an  eye  to  my  interests  so  soon  as  they  discovered  that 
Renee  de  Maucombe  would  be  acceptable  without  a  dowry, 
and  that  the  money  the  said  Renee  ought  to  inherit  from  her 
parents  would  be  duly  acknowledged  as  hers  in  the  contract. 
In  a  similar  way,  my  younger  brother,  Jean  de  Maucombe,  as 
soon  as  he  came  of  age,  signed  a  document  stating  that  he  had 
received  from  his  parents  an  advance  upon  the  estate  equal 
in  amount  to  one-third  of  the  whole.  This  is  the  device  by 
which  the  nobles  of  Provence  elude  the  infamous  Civil  Code  of 
M.  de  Bonaparte,  a  code  which  will  drive  as  many  girls  of 
good  family  into  convents  as  it  will  find  husbands  for.  The 
French  nobility,  from  the  little  I  have  been  able  to  gather, 
seem  to  be  much  divided  on  these  matters. 

The  dinner,  darling,  was  a  first  meeting  between  your 
sweetheart  and  the  exile.  The  Comte  de  Maucombe's  servants 
donned  their  old  laced  liveries  and  hats,  the  coachman  his 
great  top-boots;  we  sat  five  in  the  antiquated  carriage,  and 
arrived  in  state  about  two  o'clock — the  dinner  was  for  three — 
at  the  grange,  which  is  the  dwelling  of  the  Baron  de  1'Esto- 
rade. 

My  father-in-law  to  be  has,  you  see,  no  castle,  only  a  simple 
country  house,  standing  beneath  one  of  our  hills,  at  the 
entrance  of  that  noble  valley,  the  pride  of  which  is  un- 
doubtedly the  Castle  of  Maucombe.  The  building  is  quite 
unpretentious:  four  pebble  walls  covered  with  a  yellowish 
wash,  and  roofed  with  hollow  tiles  of  a  good  red,  constitute 
the  grange.  The  rafters  bend  under  the  weight  of  this  brick- 


160  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

kiln.  The  windows,  inserted  casually,  without  any  attempt  at 
symmetry,  have  enormous  shutters,  painted  yellow.  The  gar- 
den in  which  it  stands  is  a  Provengal  garden,  enclosed  by  low 
walls,  built  of  big  round  pebbles  set  in  layers,  alternately 
sloping  or  upright,  according  to  the  artistic  taste  of  the 
mason,  which  finds  here  its  only  outlet.  The  mud  in  which 
they  are  set  is  falling  away  in  places. 

Thanks  to  an  iron  railing  at  the  entrance  facing  the  road, 
this  simple  farm  has  a  certain  air  of  being  a  country-seat. 
The  railing,  long  sought  with  tears,  is  so  emaciated  that  it 
recalled  Sister  Angelique  to  me.  A  flight  of  stone  steps  leads 
to  the  door,  which  is  protected  by  a  pent-house  roof,  such  as 
no  peasant  on  the  Loire  would  tolerate  for  his  coquettish 
white  stone  house,  with  its  blue  roof,  glittering  in  the  sun. 
The  garden  and  surrounding  walks  are  horribly  dusty,  and 
the  trees  seem  burnt  up.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  for  years  the 
Baron's  life  has  been  a  mere  rising  up  and  going  to  bed 
again,  day  after  day,  without  a  thought  beyond  that  of  piling 
lip  coppers.  He  eats  the  same  food  as  his  two  servants,  a 
Provengal  lad  and  the  old  woman  who  used  to  wait  on  his 
wife.  The  rooms  are  scantily  furnished. 

Nevertheless,  the  house  of  1'Estorade  had  done  its  best; 
the  cupboards  had  been  ransacked,  and  its  last  man  beaten 
up  for  the  dinner,  which  was  served  to  us  on  old  silver  dishes, 
blackened  and  battered.  The  exile,  my  darling  pet,  is  like 
the  railing,  emaciated !  He  is  pale  and  silent,  and  bears 
traces  of  suffering.  At  thirty-seven  he  might  be  fifty.  The 
once  beautiful  ebon  locks  of  youth  are  streaked  with  white 
like  a  lark's  wing.  His  fine  blue  eyes  are  cavernous ;  he  is  a 
little  deaf,  which  suggests  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Coun- 
tenance. 

Spite  of  all  this,  I  have  graciously  consented  to  become 
Mme.  de  PEstorade  and  to  receive  a  dowry  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  livres,  but  only  on  the  express  condition 
of  being  allowed  to  work  my  will  upon  the  grange  and  make 
a  park  there.  I  have  demanded  from  my  father,  in  set  terms, 
a  grant  of  water,  which  can  be  brought  thither  from  Mau- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  161 

combe.  In  a  month  I  shall  be  Mme.  de  1'Estorade ;  for,  dear, 
I  have  made  a  good  impression.  After  the  snows  of  Siberia 
a  man  is  ready  enough  to  see  merit  in  those  black  eyes,  which, 
according  to  you,  used  to  ripen  fruit  with  a  look.  Louis  de 
1'Estorade  seems  well  content  to  marry  the  fair  Renee  de 
Maucombe — such  is  your  friend's  splendid  title. 

Whilst  you  are  preparing  to  reap  the  joys  of  that  many- 
sided  existence  which  awaits  a  young  lady  of  the  Chaulieu 
family,  and  to  queen  it  in  Paris,  your  poor  little  sweetheart, 
Renee,  that  child  of .  the  desert,  has  fallen  from  the  empyrean, 
whither  together  we  had  soared,  into  the  vulgar  realities  of 
a  life  as  homely  as  a  daisy's.  I  have  vowed  to  myself  to  com- 
fort this  young  man,  who  has  never  known  youth,  but  passed 
straight  from  his  mother's  arms  to  the  embrace  of  war,  and 
from  the  joys  of  his  country  home  to  the  frosts  and  forced 
labor  of  Siberia. 

Humble  country  pleasures  will  enliven  the  monotony  of 
my  future.  It  shall  be  my  ambition  to  enlarge  the  oasis 
round  my  house,  and  to  give  it  the  lordly  shade  of  fine  trees. 
My  turf,  though  Provengal,  shall  be  always  green.  I  shall 
carry  my  park  up  the  hillside  and  plant  on  the  highest  point 
some  pretty  kiosque,  whence,  perhaps,  my  eyes  may  catch  the 
shimmer  of  the  Mediterranean.  Orange  and  lemon  trees,  and 
all  choicest  things  that  grow,  shall  embellish  my  retreat ;  and 
there  will  I  be  a  mother  among  my  children.  The  poetry  of 
Nature,  which  nothing  can  destroy,  shall  hedge  us  round; 
and  standing  loyally  at  the  post  of  duty,  we  need  fear  no 
danger.  My  religious  feelings  are  shared  by  my  father-in- 
law  and  by  the  Chevalier. 

Ah !  darling,  my  life  unrolls  itself  before  my  eyes  like  one 
of  the  great  highways  of  France,  level  and  easy,  shaded  with 
evergreen  trees.  This  century  will  not  see  another  Bona- 
parte; and  my  children,  if  I  have  any,  will  not  be  rent  from 
me.  They  will  be  mine  to  train  and  make  men  of — the  joy 
of  my  life.  If  you  also  are  true  to  your  destiny,  you  who 
ought  to  find  your  mate  amongst  the  great  ones  of  the  earth, 
the  children  of  your  Renee  will  not  lack  a  zealous  protectress. 


162  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Farewell,  then,  for  me  at  least,  to  the  romances  and  thrill- 
ing adventures  in  which  we  used  ourselves  to  play  the  part  of 
heroine.  The  whole  story  of  my  life  lies  before  me  now; 
its  great  crises  will  be  the  teething  and  nutrition  of  the  young 
Masters  de  1'Estorade,  and  the  mischief  they  do  to  my  shrubs 
and  me.  To  embroider  their  caps,  to  be  loved  and  admired 
by  a  sickly  man  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gemenos  valley — there 
are  my  pleasures.  Perhaps  some  day  the  country  dame  may 
go  and  spend  a  winter  in  Marseilles;  but  danger  does  not 
haunt  the  purlieus  of  a  narrow  provincial  stage.  There  will 
be  nothing  to  fear,  not  even  an  admiration  such  as  could  only 
make  a  woman  proud.  We  shall  take  a  great  deal  of  interest 
in  the  silkworms  for  whose  benefit  our  mulberry-leaves  will 
be  sold!  We  shall  know  the  strange  vicissitudes  of  life  in 
Provence,  and  the  storms  that  may  attack  even  a  peaceful 
household.  Quarrels  will  be  impossible,  for  M.  de  1'Estorade 
has  formally  announced  that  he  will  leave  the  reins  in  his 
wife's  hands ;  and  as  I  shall  do  nothing  to  remind  him  of  this 
wise  resolve,  it  is  likely  he  may  persevere  in  it. 

You,  my  dear  Louise,  will  supply  the  romance  of  my  life. 
So  you  must  narrate  to  me  in  full  all  your  adventures,  describe 
your  balls  and  parties,  tell  me  what  you  wear,  what  flowers 
crown  your  lovely  golden  locks,  and  what  are  the  words  and 
manners  of  the  men  you  meet.  Your  other  self  will  be  always 
there — listening,  dancing,  feeling  her  finger-tips  pressed — 
with  you.  If  only  I  could  have  some  fun  in  Paris  now  and 
then,  while  you  played  the  house-mother  at  La  Crampade ! 
such  is  the  name  of  our  grange.  Poor  M.  de  1'Estorade,  who 
fancies  he  is  marrying  one  woman !  Will  he  find  out  there 
are  two  ? 

I  am  writing  nonsense  now,  and  as  henceforth  I  can  only 
be  foolish  by  proxy,  I  had  better  stop.  One  kiss,  then,  on 
each  cheek — my  lips  are  still  virginal,  he  has  only  dared  to 
take  my  hand.  Oh !  our  deference  and  propriety  are  quite 
disquieting,  I  assure  you.  There,  I  am  off  again.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  dear. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  163 

P.  8. — I  have  just  opened  your  third  letter.  My  dear,  1 
have  about  one  thousand  livres  to  dispose  of;  spend  them, 
for  me  on  pretty  things,  such  as  we  can't  find  here,  nor  even 
at  Marseilles.  While  speeding  on  your  own  business,  give 
a  thought  to  the  recluse  of  La  Crampade.  Remember  that 
on  neither  side  have  the  heads  of  the  family  any  people  of 
taste  in  Paris  to  make  their  purchases.  I  shall  reply  to  your 
letter  later. 


VI 

DON  FELIPE   HENAREZ   TO  DON   PERNAND 

PARIS,  September. 

THE  address  of  this  letter,  my  brother,  will  show  you  that 
the  head  of  your  house  is  out  of  reach  of  danger.  If  the 
massacre  of  our  ancestors  in  the  Court  of  Lions  made  Span- 
iards and  Christians  of  us  against  our  will,  it  left  us  a  legacy 
of  Arab  cunning;  and  it  may  be  that  I  owe  my  safety  tc  the 
blood  of  the  Abencerrages  still  flowing  in  my  veins. 

Fear  made  Ferdinand's  acting  so  good,  that  Valdez  actually 
believed  in  his  protestations.  But  for  me  the  poor  Admiral 
would  have  been  done  for.  Nothing,  it  seems,  will  teach  the 
Liberals  what  a  king  is.  This  particular  Bourbon  has  been 
long  known  to  me ;  and  the  more  His  Majesty  assured  me  of 
his  protection,  the  stronger  grew  my  suspicions.  A  true 
Spaniard  has  no  need  to  repeat  a  promise.  A  flow  of  words 
is  a  sure  sign  of  duplicity. 

Valdez  took  ship  on  an  English  vessel.  For  myself,  no 
sooner  did  I  see  the  cause  of  my  beloved  Spain  wrecked  in 
Andalusia,  than  I  wrote  to  the  steward  of  my  Sardinian 
estate  to  make  arrangements  for  my  escape.  Some  hardy  coral 
fishers  were  despatched  to  wait  for  me  at  a  point  on  the  coast ; 
and  when  Ferdinand  urged  the  French  to  secure  my  person, 
I  was  already  in  my  barony  of  Macumer,  amidst  brigands  who 
defy  all  law  and  all  avengers. 

The  last  Hispano-Moorish  family  of  Granada  has  found 


164  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

once  more  the  shelter  of  an  African  desert,  and  even  a  Saracen 
horse,  in  an  estate  which  comes  to  it  from  Saracens.  How 
the  eyes  of  these  brigands — who  but  yesterday  had  dreaded 
my  authority — sparkled  with  savage  joy  and  pride  when  they 
found  they  were  protecting  against  the  King  of  Spain's  ven- 
detta the  Due  de  Soria,  their  master  and  a  Henarez — the  first 
who  had  come  to  visit  them  since  the  time  when  the  island 
belonged  to  the  Moors.  More  than  a  score  of  rifles  were  ready 
to  point  at  Ferdinand  of  Bourbon,  son  of  a  race  which  was 
still  unknown  when  the  Abencerrages  arrived  as  conquerors 
on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

My  idea  had  been  to  live  on  the  income  of  these  huge  estates, 
which,  unfortunately,  we  have  so  greatly  neglected;  but  my 
stay  there  convinced  me  that  this  was  impossible,  and  that 
Queverdo's  reports  were  only  too  correct.  The  poor  man  had 
twenty-two  lives  at  my  disposal,  and  not  a  single  real;  prairies 
of  twenty  thousand  acres,  and  not  a  house;  virgin  forests,  and 
not  a  stick  of  furniture !  A  million  piastres  and  a  resident 
master  for  half  a  century  would  be  necessary  to  make  these 
magnificent  lands  pay.  I  must  see  to  this. 

The  conquered  have  time  during  their  flight  to  ponder 
their  own  case  and  that  of  their  vanquished  party.  At  the 
spectacle  of  my  noble  country,  a  corpse  for  monks  to  prey 
on,  my  eyes  filled  with  tears;  I  read  in  it  the  presage  of 
Spain's  gloomy  future. 

At  Marseilles  I  heard  of  Riego's  end.  Painfully  did  it 
come  home  to  me  that  my  life  also  would  henceforth  be  a 
martyrdom,  but  a  martyrdom  protracted  and  unnoticed.  Is 
existence  worthy  the  name,  when  a  man  can  no  longer  die 
for  his  country  or  live  for  a  woman?  To  love,  to  conquer, 
this  twofold  form  of  the  same  thought,  is  the  law  graven 
on  our  sabres,  emblazoned  on  the  vaulted  roofs  of  our  palaces, 
ceaselessly  whispered  by  the  water,  which  rises  and  falls  in 
our  marble  fountains.  But  in  vain  does  it  nerve  my  heart; 
the  sabre  is  broken,  the  palace  in  ashes,  the  living  spring 
sucked  up  by  the  barren  sand. 

Here,  then,  is  my  last  will  and  testament. 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  165 

Don  Fernand,  you  will  understand  now  why  I  put  a  check 
upon  your  ardor  and  ordered  you  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
rey  netto.  As  your  brother  and  friend,  I  implore  you  to  obey 
me;  as  your  master,  1  command.  You  will  go  to  the  King 
and  will  ask  from  him  the  grant  of  my  dignities  and  property, 
my  office  and  titles.  He  will  perhaps  hesitate,  and  may  treat 
you  to  some  regal  scowls ;  but  you  must  tell  him  that  you  are 
loved  by  Marie  Heredia,  and  that  Marie  can  marry  none  but 
a  Due  de  Soria.  This  will  make  the  King  radiant.  It  is  the 
immense  fortune  of  the  Heredia  family  which  alone  has 
stood  between  him  and  the  accomplishment  of  my  ruin. 
Your  proposal  will  seem  to  him,  therefore,  to  deprive  me  of  a 
last  resource;  and  he  will  gladly  hand  over  to  you  my  spoils. 

You  will  then  marry  Marie.  The  secret  of  the  mutual  love 
against  which  you  fought  was  no  secret  to  me,  and  I  have 
prepared  the  old  Count  to  see  you  take  my  place.  Marie  and 
I  were  merely  doing  what  was  expected  of  us  in  our  position 
and  carrying  out  the  wishes  of  our  fathers;  everything  else 
is  in  your  favor.  You  are  beautiful  as  a  child  of  love, 
and  are  possessed  of  Marie's  heart.  I  am  an  ill-favored 
Spanish  grandee,  for  whom  she  feels  an  aversion  to  which 
she  will  not  confess.  Some  slight  reluctance  there  may  be  on 
the  part  of  the  noble  Spanish  girl  on  account  of  my  misfor- 
tunes, but  this  you  will  soon  overcome. 

Due  de  Soria,  your  predecessor  would  neither  cost  you  a 
regret  nor  rob  you  of  a  maravedi.  My  mother's  diamonds, 
which  will  suffice  to  make  me  independent,  I  will  keep,  be- 
cause the  gap  caused  by  them  in  the  family  estate  can  be 
filled  by  Marie's  jewels.  You  can  send  them,  therefore,  by 
my  nurse,  old  Urraca,  the  only  one  of  my  servants  whom 
I  wish  to  retain.  No  one  can  prepare  my  chocolate  as  she 
does. 

During  our  brief  revolution,  my  life  of  unremitting  toil 
was  reduced  to  the  barest  necessaries,  and  these  my  salary 
was  sufficient  to  provide.  You  will  therefore  find  the  income 
of  the  last  two  years  in  the  hands  of  your  steward.  This 
sum  is  mine;  but  a  Due  de  Soria  cannot  marry  without  a 


166  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

large  expenditure  of  money,  therefore  we  will  divide  it.  You 
will  not  refuse  this  wedding-present  from  your  brigand 
brother.  Besides,  I  mean  to  have  it  so. 

The  barony  of  Macumer,  not  being  Spanish  territory, 
remains  to  me.  Thus  I  have  still  a  country  and  a  name, 
should  I  wish  to  take  up  a  position  in  the  world  again. 

Thank  Heaven,  this  finishes  our  business,  and  the  house 
of  Soria  is  saved ! 

At  the  very  moment  when  I  drop  into  simple  Baron  de 
Macumer,  the  French  cannon  announce  the  arrival  of  the 
Due  d'Angouleme.  You  will  understand  why  I  break 
off.  ... 

October. 

When  I  arrived  here  I  had  not  ten  doubloons  in  my 
pocket.  He  would  indeed  be  a  poor  sort  of  leader  who,  in 
the  midst  of  calamities  he  has  not  been  able  to  avert,  has 
found  means  to  feather  his  own  nest.  For  the  vanquished 
Moor  there  remains  a  horse  and  the  desert ;  for  the  Christian 
foiled  of  his  hopes,  the  cloister  and  a  few  gold  pieces. 

But  my  present  resignation  is  mere  weariness.  I  am  not 
yet  so  near  the  monastery  as  to  have  abandoned  all  thoughts 
of  life.  Ozalga  had  given  me  several  letters  of  introduction 
to  meet  all  emergencies,  amongst  these  one  to  a  bookseller, 
who  takes  with  our  fellow-countrymen  the  place  which  Gali- 
gnani  holds  with  the  English  in  Paris.  This  man  has  found 
eight  pupils  for  me  at  three  francs  a  lesson.  I  go  to  my 
pupils  every  alternate  day,  so  that  I  have  four  lessons  a  day 
and  earn  twelve  francs,  which  is  much  more  than  I  require. 
When  Urraca  comes  I  shall  make  some  Spanish  exile  happy 
by  passing  on  to  him  my  connection. 

I  lodge  in  the  Eue  Hillerin-Bertin  with  a  poor  widow,  who 
takes  boarders.  My  room  faces  south  and  looks  out  on  a  little 
garden.  It  is  perfectly  quiet ;  I  have  green  trees  to  look  upon, 
and  spend  the  sum  of  one  piastre  a  day.  I  am  amazed  at  the 
amount  of  calm,  pure  pleasure  which  I  enjoy  in  this  life, 
after  the  fashion  of  Dionysius  at  Corinth.  From  sunrise 
until  ten  o'clock  I  smoke  and  take  my  chocolate,  sitting  at 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  167 

my  window  and  contemplating  two  Spanish  plants,  a  broom 
which  rises  out  of  a  clump  of  jessamine— gold  on  a  white 
ground,  colors  which  must  send  a  thrill  through  any  scion  of 
the  Moors.  At  ten  o'clock  I  start  for  my  lessons,  which  last 
till  four,  when  I  return  for  dinner.  Afterwards  I  read  and 
smoke  till  I  go  to  bed. 

I  can  put  up  for  a  long  time  with  a  life  like  this,  com- 
pounded of  work  and  meditation,  of  solitude  and  society. 
Be  happy,  therefore,  Fernand;  my  abdication  has  brought 
no  afterthoughts ;  I  have  no  regrets  like  Charles  V.,  no  long- 
ing to  try  the  game  again  like  Napoleon.  Five  days  and 
nights  have  passed  since  I  wrote  my  will;  to  my  mind  they 
might  have  been  five  centuries.  Honor,  titles,  wealth,  are 
for  me  as  though  they  had  never  existed. 

Now  that  the  conventional  barrier  of  respect  which  hedged 
me  round  has  fallen,  I  can  open  my  heart  to  you,  dear  boy. 
Though  cased  in  the  armor  of  gravity,  this  heart  is  full  of 
tenderness  and  devotion,  which  have  found  no  object,  and 
which  no  woman  has  divined,  not  even  she  who,  from  her 
cradle,  has  been  my  destined  bride.  In  this  lies  the  secret 
of  my  political  enthusiasm.  Spain  has  taken  the  place  of  a 
mistress  and  received  the  homage  of  my  heart.  And  now 
Spain,  too,  is  gone !  Beggared  of  all,  I  can  gaze  upon  the 
ruin  of  what  once  was  me  and  speculate  over  the  mysteries 
of  my  being. 

Why  did  life  animate  this  carcass,  and  when  will  it  depart  ? 
Why  has  that  race,  pre-eminent  in  chivalry,  breathed  all  its 
primitive  virtues — its  tropical  love,  its  fiery  poetry — into 
this  its  last  offshoot,  if  the  seed  was  never  to  burst  its  rugged 
shell,  if  no  stem  was  to  spring  forth,  no  radiant  flower 
scatter  aloft  its  Eastern  perfumes?  Of  what  crime  have  I 
been  guilty  before  my  birth  that  T  can  inspire  no  love?  Did 
fate  from  my  very  infancy  decree  that  I  should  be  stranded, 
a  useless  hulk,  on  some  barren  shore?  I  find  in  my  soul  the 
image  of  the  deserts  where  my  fathers  ranged,  illumined  by 
a  scorching  sun  which  shrivels  up  all  life.  Proud  remnant 
of  a  fallen  race,  vain  force,  love  run  to  waste,  an  old  man  in 


168  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

the  prime  of  youth,  here  better  than  elsewhere  shall  I  await 
the  last  grace  of  death.  Alas !  under  this  murky  sky  no 
spark  will  kindle  these  ashes  again  to  flame.  Thus  my  last 
words  may  he  those  of  Christ,  My  God,  Thou  hast  forsaken 
me!  Cry  of  agony  and  terror,  to  the  core  of  which  no  mortal 
has  ventured  yet  to  penetrate! 

You  can  realize  now,  Fernand,  what  a  joy  it  is  to  me 
to  live  afresh  in  you  and  Marie.  I  shall  watch  you  hence- 
forth with  the  pride  of  a  creator  satisfied  in  his  work.  Love 
each  other  well  and  go  on  loving  if  you  would  not  give  me 
pain;  any  discord  between  you  would  hurt  me  more  than  it 
would  yourselves. 

Our  mother  had  a  presentiment  that  events  would  one 
day  serve  her  wishes.  It  may  be  that  the  longing  of  a 
mother  constitutes  a  pact  between  herself  and  God.  Was  she 
not,  moreover,  one  of  those  mysterious  beings  who  can  hold 
converse  with  Heaven  and  bring  back  thence  a  vision  of  the 
future?  How  often  have  I  not  read  in  the  lines  of  her  fore- 
head that  she  was  coveting  for  Fernand  the  honors  and  the 
wealth  of  Felipe !  When  I  said  so  to  her,  she  would  reply 
with  tears,  laying  bare  the  wounds  of  a  heart,  which  of  right 
was  the  undivided  property  of  both  her  sons,  but  which 
an  irresistible  passion  gave  to  you  alone. 

Her  spirit,  therefore,  will  hover  joyfully  above  your  heads 
as  you  bow  them  at  the  altar.  My  mother,  have  you  not  a 
caress  for  your  Felipe  now  that  he  has  yielded  to  your  favorite 
even  the  girl  whom  you  regretfully  thrust  into  his  arms? 
What  I  have  done  is  pleasing  to  our  womankind,  to  the  dead, 
and  to  the  King;  it  is  the  will  of  God.  Make  no  difficulty 
then,  Fernand ;  obey,  and  be  silent. 

P.  S.  Tell  Urraca  to  be  sure  and  call  me  nothing  but 
M.  Henarez.  Don't  say  a  word  about  me  to  Marie.  You 
must  be  the  one  living  soul  to  know  the  secrets  of  the  last 
Christianized  Moor,  in  whose  veins  runs  the  blood  of  a  great 
family,  which  took  its  rise  in  the  desert  and  is  now  about  to 
die  out  in  the  person  of  a  solitary  exile. 

Farewell. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  169 

VII 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  EEN^E  DE  MAUCOMBE 

WHAT  !  To  be  married  so  soon.  But  this  is  unheard  of. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  you  become  engaged  to  a  man  who  is 
a  stranger  to  you,  and  about  whom  you  know  nothing.  The 
man  may  be  deaf — there  are  so  many  kinds  of  deafness ! — he 
may  be  sickly,  tiresome,  insufferable ! 

Don't  you  see,  Renee,  what  they  want  with  you?  You 
are  needful  for  carrying  on  the  glorious  stock  of  the  1'Es- 
torades,  that  is  all.  You  will  be  buried  in  the  provinces. 
Are  these  the  promises  we  made  each  other?  Were  I  you, 
I  would  sooner  set  off  to  the  Hyeres  islands  in  a  caique,  on 
the  chance  of  being  captured  by  an  Algerian  corsair  and  sold 
to  the  Grand  Turk.  Then  I  should  be  a  Sultana  some  day, 
and  wouldn't  I  make  a  stir  in  the  harem  while  I  was  young — 
yes,  and  afterwards  too ! 

You  are  leaving  one  convent  to  enter  another.  I  know 
you;  you  are  a  coward,  and  you  will  submit  to  the  yoke  of 
family  life  with  a  lamblike  docility.  But  I  am  here  to 
direct  you;  you  must  come  to  Paris.  There  we  shall  drive 
the  rpf.n  wild  and  hold  a  court  like  queens.  Your  husband, 
sweetheart,  in  three  years  from  now  may  become  a  member 
of  the  Chamber.  I  know  all  about  members  now,  and  I 
will  explain  it  to  vou.  You  will  work  that  machine  very  well ; 
you  can  live  in  Paris,  and  become  there  what  my  mother 
calls  a  woman  of  fashion.  Oh !  you  needn't  suppose  I  will 
leave  you  in.  your  grange ! 

Monday. 

For  a  whole  fortnight  now,  my  dear,  I  have  been  living 
the  life  of  society;  one  evening  at  the  Italiens,  another  at 
the  Grand  Opera,  and  always  a  ball  afterwards.  Ah !  society 
is  a  witching  world.  The  music  of  the  Opera  enchants  me; 
and  whilst  my  soul  is  plunged  in  divine  pleasure,  I  am  the 
centre  oi  admiration  and  the  focus  of  all  the  opera-glasses. 


170  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

But  a  single  glance  will  make  the  boldest  youth  drop  his 
eyes. 

I  have  seen  some  charming  young  men  there ;  all  the  same, 
I  don't  care  for  any  of  them;  not  one  has  roused  in  me  the 
emotion  which  I  feel  when  I  listen  to  Garcia  in  his  splendid 
duet  with  Pellegrini  in  Otello.  Heavens !  how  jealous  Ros- 
sini must  have  been  to  express  jealousy  so  well !  What  a  cry 
in  "II  mio  cor  si  divide !"  I'm  speaking  Greek  to  you,  for 
you  never  heard  Garcia,  but  then  you  know  how  jealous  I 
am! 

What  a  wretched  dramatist  Shakespeare  is!  Othello  is 
in  love  with  glory ;  he  wins  battles,  he  gives  orders,  he  struts 
about  and  is  all  over  the  place  while  Desdemona  sits  at  home ; 
and  Desdemona,  who  sees  herself  neglected  for  the  silly  fuss 
of  public  life,  is  quite  meek  all  the  time.  Such  a  sheep  de- 
serves to  be  slaughtered.  Let  the  man  whom  I  deign  to  love 
beware  how  he  thinks  of  anything  but  loving  me ! 

For  my  part,  I  like  those  long  trials  of  the  old-fashioned 
chivalry.  That  lout  of  a  young  lord,  who  took  offence  be- 
cause his  sovereign-lady  sent  him  down  among  the  lions  to 
fetch  her  glove,  was,  in  my  opinion,  very  impertinent,  and  a 
fool  too.  Doubtless  the  lady  had  in  reserve  for  him  some 
exquisite  flower  of  love,  which  he  lost,  as  he  well  deserved — 
the  puppy ! 

But  here  am  I  running  on  as  though  I  had  not  a  great 
piece  of  news  to  tell  you.  My  father  is  certainly  going  to 
represent  our  master  the  King  at  Madrid.  I  say  our  mas- 
ter, for  I  shall  make  part  of  the  embassy.  My  mother  wishes 
to  remain  here,  and  my  father  will  take  me  so  as  to  have  some 
woman  with  him. 

My  dear,  this  seems  to  you,  no  doubt,  very  simple,  but 
there  are  horrors  behind  it,  all  the  same:  in  a  fortnight  I 
have  probed  the  secrets  of  the  house.  My  mother  would  ac- 
company my  father  to  Madrid  if  he  would  take  M.  de  Canalis 
as  a  secretary  to  the  embassy.  But  the  King  appoints  the 
secretaries ;  the  Duke  dare  neither  annoy  the  King,  who  hates 
to  be  opposed,  nor  vex  my  mother;  and  the  wily  diplomat 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  171 

believes  he  has  cut  the  knot  by  leaving  the  Duchess  here. 
M.  de  Canalis,  who  is  the  great  poet  of  the  day,  is  the  young 
man  who  cultivates  my  mother's  society,  and  who  no  doubt 
studies  diplomacy  with  her  from  three  o'clock  to  five.  Diplo- 
macy must  be  a  fine  subject,  for  he  is  as  regular  as  a  gambler 
on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

The  Due  de  Ehetore,  our  elder  brother,  solemn,  cold,  and 
whimsical,  would  be  extinguished  by  his  father  at  Madrid, 
therefore  he  remains  in  Paris.  Miss  Griffith  has  found  out 
also  that  Alphonse  is  in  love  with  a  ballet-girl  at  the  Opera. 
How  is  it  possible  to  fall  in  love  with  legs  and  pirouettes? 
We  have  noticed  that  my  brother  comes  to  the  theatre  only 
when  Tullia  dances  there;  he  applauds  the  steps  of  this 
creature,  and  then  goes  out.  Two  ballet-girls  in  a  family 
are,  I  fancy,  more  destructive  than  the  plague.  My  second 
brother  is  with  his  regiment,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  him. 
Thus  it  comes  about  that  I  have  to  act  as  the  Antigone  of 
His  Majesty's  ambassador.  Perhaps  I  may  get  married  in 
Spain,  and  perhaps  my  father's  idea  is  a  marriage  there  with- 
out dowry,  after  the  pattern  of  yours  with  this  broken-down 
guard  of  honor.  My  father  asked  if  I  would  go  with  him, 
and  offered  me  the  use  of  his  Spanish  master. 

"Spain,  the  country  for  castles  in  the  air !"  I  cried.  "Per- 
haps you  hope  that  it  may  mean  marriages  for  me !" 

For  sole  reply  he  honored  me  with  a  meaning  look.  For 
some  days  he  has  amused  himself  with  teasing  me  at  lunch ; 
he  watches  me,  and  I  dissemble.  In  this  way  I  have  played 
with  him  cruelly  as  father  and  ambassador  in  petto.  Hadn't 
he  taken  me  for  a  fool?  He  asked  what  I  thought  of  this 
and  that  young  man,  and  of  some  girls  whom  I  had  met  in 
several  houses.  I  replied  with  quite  inane  remarks  on  the 
color  of  their  hair,  their  faces,  and  the  difference  in  their 
figures.  My  father  seemed  disappointed  at  my  crassness,  and 
inwardly  blamed  himself  for  having  asked  me. 

"Still,  father,"  I  added,  "don't  suppose  I  am  saying  what 
I  really  think:  mother  made  me  afraid  the  other  day  that 
I  had  spoken  more  frankly  than  I  ought  of  my  impressions." 


172  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"With  your  family  you  can  speak  quite  freely/'  my  mother 
replied. 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  went  on.  "The  young  men  I  have 
met  so  far  strike  me  as  too  self-centered  to  excite  interest  in 
others;  they  are  much  more  taken  up  with  themselves  than 
with  their  company.  They  can't  be  accused  of  lack  of  candor 
at  any  rate.  They  put  on  a  certain  expression  to  talk  to  us, 
and  drop  it  again  in  a  moment,  apparently  satisfied  that  we 
don't  use  our  eyes.  The  man  as  he  converses  is  the  lover; 
silent,  he  is  the  husband.  The  girls,  again,  are  so  artificial 
that  it  is  impossible  to  know  what  they  really  are,  except 
from  the  way  they  dance ;  their  figures  and  movements  alone 
are  not  a  sham.  But  what  has  alarmed  me  most  in  this 
fashionable  society  is  its  brutality.  The  little  incidents  which 
take  place  when  supper  is  announced  give  one  some  idea — 
to  compare  small  things  with  great — of  what  a  popular  ris- 
ing might  be.  Courtesy  is  only  a  thin  veneer  on  the  general 
selfishness.  I  imagined  society  very  different.  Women  count 
for  little  in  it ;  that  may  perhaps  be  a  survival  of  Bonapartist 
ideas." 

"Armande  is  coming  on  extraordinarily,"  said  my  mother. 

"Mother,  did  you  think  I  should  never  get  beyond  asking 
to  see  Mme.  de  Stael?" 

My  father  smiled,  and  rose  from  the  table. 

Saturday. 

My  dear,  I  have  left  one  thing  out.  Here  is  the  tidbit  I 
have  reserved  for  you.  The  love  which  we  pictured  must 
be  extremely  well  hidden;  I  have  seen  not  a  trace  of  it. 
True,  I  have  caught  in  drawing-rooms  now  and  again  a  quick 
exchange  of  glances,  but  how  colorless  it  all  is !  Love,  as  we 
imagined  it,  a  world  of  wonders,  of  glorious  dreams,  of 
charming  realities,  of  sorrows  that  waken  sympathy,  and 
smiles  that  make  sunshine,  does  not  exist.  The  bewitching 
words,  the  constant  interchange  of  happiness,  the  misery  of 
absence,  the  flood  of  joy  at  the  presence  of  the  beloved  one — 
where  are  they?  What  soil  produces  these  radiant  flowers  of 
the  soul?  Which  is  wrong?  We  or -the  world? 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  173 

I  have  already  seen  hundreds  of  men,  young  and  middle- 
aged;  not  one  has  stirred  the  least  feeling  in  me.  ISTo  proof 
of  admiration  and  devotion  on  their  part,  not  even  a  sword 
drawn  in  my  behalf,  would  have  moved  me.  Love,  dear,  is 
the  product  of  such  rare  conditions  that  it  is  quite  possible 
to  live  a  lifetime  without  coming  across  the  being  on  whom 
nature  has  bestowed  the  power  of  making  one's  happiness. 
The  thought  is  enough  to  make  one  shudder;  for  if  this 
being  is  found  too  late,  what  then? 

For  some  days  I  have  begun  to  tremble  when  I  think  of 
the  destiny  of  women,  and  to  understand  why  so  many  wear 
a  sad  face  beneath  the  flush  brought  by  the  unnatural  ex- 
citement of  social  dissipation.  Marriage  is  a  mere  matter 
of  chance.  Look  at  yours.  A  storm  of  wild  thoughts  has 
passed  over  my  mind.  To  be  loved'  every  day  the  same, 
yet  with  a  difference,  to  be  loved  as  much  after  ten  years 
of  happiness  as  on  the  first  day ! — such  a  love  demands  years. 
The  lover  must  be  allowed  to  languish,  curiosity  must  be 
piqued  and  satisfied,  feeling  roused  and  responded  to. 

Is  there,  then,  a  law  for  the  inner  fruits  of  the  heart,  as 
there  is  for  the  visible  fruits  of  nature?  Can  joy  be  made 
lasting?  In  what  proportion  should  love  mingle  tears  with 
its  pleasures?  The  cold  policy  of  the  funereal,  monotonous, 
persistent  routine  of  the  convent  seemed  to  me  at  these  mo- 
ments the  only  real  life;  while  the  wealth,  the  splendor,  the 
tears,  the  delights,  the  triumph,  the  joy,  the  satisfaction,  of 
a  love  equal,  shared,  and  sanctioned,  appeared  a  mere  idle 
vision. 

I  see  no  room  in  this  city  for  the  gentle  ways  of  love,  for 
precious  walks  in  shady  alleys,  the  full  moon  sparkling  on 
the  water,  while  the  suppliant  pleads  in  vain.  Eich,  young, 
and  beautiful,  I  have  only  to  love,  and  love  would  become 
my  sole  occupation,  my  life ;  yet  in  the  three  months  during 
which  I  have  come  and  gone,  eager  and  curious,  nothing  has 
appealed  to  me  in  the  bright,  covetous,  keen  eyes  around  me. 
]STo  voice  has  thrilled  me,  no  glance  has  made  the  world  seem 
brignte*. 


174  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Music  alone  has  filled  my  soul,  music  alone  has  at  all  taken 
the  place  of  our  friendship.  Sometimes,  at  night,  I  will 
linger  for  an  hour  by  my  window,  gazing  into  the  garden, 
summoning  the  future,  with  all  it  brings,  out  of  the  mystery 
which  shrouds  it.  There  are  days  too  when,  having  started 
for  a  drive,  I  get  out  and  walk  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  and 
picture  to  myself  that  the  man  who  is  to  waken  my  slumber- 
ing soul  is  at  hand,  that  he  will  follow  and  look  at  me.  Then 
I  meet  only  mountebanks,  vendors  of  gingerbread,  jugglers, 
passers-by  hurrying  to  their  business,  or  lovers  who  try  to 
escape  notice.  These  I  am  tempted  to  stop,  asking  them, 
"You  who  are  happy,  tell  me  what  is  love." 

But  the  impulse  is  repressed,  and  I  return  to  my  carriage, 
swearing  to  die  an  old  maid.  Love  is  undoubtedly  an  in- 
carnation, and  how  many  conditions  are  needful  before  it 
can  take  place !  We  are  not  certain  of  never  quarreling  with 
ourselves,  how  much  less  so  when  there  are  two?  This  is 
a  problem  which  God  alone  can  solve. 

I  begin  to  think  that  I  shall  return  to  the  convent.  If  I 
remain  in  society,  I  shall  do  things  which  will  look  like  follies, 
for  I  cannot  possibly  reconcile  myself  to  what  I  see.  I  am 
perpetually  wounded  either  in  my  sense  of  delicacy,  my  inner 
principles,  or  my  secret  thoughts. 

Ah!  my  mother  is  the  happiest  of  women,  adored  as  she 
is  by  Canalis,  her  great  little  man.  My  love,  do  you  know 
I  am  seized  sometimes  with  a  horrible  craving  to  know  what 
goes  on  between  my  mother  and  that  young  man?  Griffith 
tells  me  she  has  gone  through  all  these  moods;  she  has 
longed  to  fly  at  women,  whose  happiness  was  written  in  their 
face;  she  has  blackened  their  character,  torn  them  to  pieces. 
According  to  her,  virtue  consists  in  burying  all  these  savage 
instincts  in  one's  innermost  heart.  But  what  then  of  the 
heart  ?  It  becomes  the  sink  of  all  that  is  worst  in  us. 

It  is  very  humiliating  that  no  adorer  has  yet  turned  up 
for  me.  I  am  a  marriageable  girl,  but  I  have  brothers,  a 
family,  relations,  who  are  sensitive  on  the  point  of  honor. 
Ah !  if  that  is  what  keeps  men  back,  they  are  poltroons. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  175 

The  part  of  Chimene  in  the  Cid  and  that  of  the  Cid 
delight  me.    What  a  marvelous  play !    Well,  good-bye. 


VIII 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME 

January. 

OUR  master  is  a  poor  refugee,  forced  to  keep  in  hiding  on 
account  of  the  part  he  played  in  the  revolution  which  The 
Due  d'Angouleme  has  just  quelled — a  triumph  to  which  we 
owe  some  splendid  fetes.  Though  a  Liberal,  and  doubtless 
a  man  of  the  people,  he  has  awakened  my  interest:  I  fancy 
that  he  must  have  been  condemned  to  death.  1  make  him 
talk  for  the  purpose  of  getting  at  his  secret;  but  he  is  of  a 
truly  Castihan  taciturnity,  proud  as  though  he  were  Gon- 
salvc  di  Cordova,  and  nevertheless  angelic  in  his  patience 
and  gentleness.  His  pride  is  not  irritable  like  Miss  Grif- 
fith's, it  belongs  to  his  inner  nature;  he  forces  us  to  civility 
because  his  own  manners  are  so  perfect,  and  holds  us  at  a 
distance  by  the  respect  he  shows  us.  My  father  declares  that 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  the  nobleman  in  Senor  Henarez, 
whom,  among  ourselves,  he  calls  in  fun  Don  Henarez. 

A  few  days  ago  I  took  the  liberty  of  addressing  him  thus. 
He  raised  his  eyes,  which  are  generally  bent  on  the  ground, 
and  flashed  a  look  from  them  that  quite  abashed  me;  my 
dear,  he  certainly  has  the  most  beautiful  eyes  imaginable. 
I  asked  him  if  I  had  offended  him  in  any  way,  and  he  said 
to  me  in  his  grand,  rolling  Spanish : 

"I  am  here  only  to  teach  you  Spanish." 

1  blushed,  and  felt  quite  snubbed.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  making  some  pert  answer,  when  I  remembered  what  our 
dear  mother  in  God  used  to  say  to  us,  and  I  replied  in- 
stead : 

"It  would  be  a  kindness  to  tell  me  if  you  have  anything  to 
complain  of." 

A  tremor  passed  through  him,  the  blood  rose  in  his  olive 
cheeks;  he  replied  in  a  voice  of  some  emotion: 


176  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"Religion  must  have  taught  you,  better  than  I  can,  to  re- 
spect the  unhappy.  Had  I  been  a  don  in  Spain,  and  lost 
everything  in  the  triumph  of  Ferdinand  VII.,  your  witticism 
would  be  unkind;  but  if  I  am  only  a  poor  teacher  of  lan- 
guages, is  it  not  a  heartless  satire?  Neither  is  worthy  of  a 
young  lady  of  rank." 

I  took  his  hand,  saying: 

"In  the  name  of  religion  also,  I  beg  you  to  pardon  me." 

He  bowed,  opened  my  Don  Quixote,  and  sat  down. 

This  little  incident  disturbed  me  more  than  the  harvest 
of  compliments,  gazing,  and  pretty  speeches  on  my  most  suc- 
cessful evening.  During  the  lesson  I  watched  him  at- 
tentively, which  I  could  do  the  more  safely,  as  he  never  looks 
at  me. 

As  the  result  of  my  observations,  I  made  out  that  the 
tutor,  whom  we  took  to  be  forty,  is  a  young  man,  some  years 
under  thirty.  My  governess,  to  whom  I  had  handed  him 
over,  remarked  on  the  beauty  of  his  black  hair  and  of  his 
pearly  teeth.  As  to  his  eyes,  they  are  velvet  and  fire;  but 
here  ends  the  catalogue  of  his  good  points.  Apart  from  this, 
he  is  plain  and  insignificant.  Though  the  Spaniards  have 
been  described  as  not  a  cleanly  people,  this  man  is  most  care- 
fully got  up,  and  his  hands  are  whiter  than  his  face.  He 
stoops  a  little,  and  has  an  extremely  large,  oddly-shaped 
head.  His  ugliness,  which,  however,  has  a  dash  of  piquancy, 
is  aggravated  by  smallpox  marks,  which  seam  his  face.  His 
forehead  is  very  prominent,  and  the  shaggy  eyebrows  meet, 
giving  a  repellent  air  of  harshness.  There  is  a  frowning, 
plaintive  look  on  his  face,  reminding  one  of  a  sickly  child, 
which  owes  its  life  to  superhuman  care,  as  Sister  Marthe  did. 
As  my  father  observed,  his  features  are  a  shrunken  repro- 
duction of  those  of  Cardinal  Ximenes.  The  natural  dig- 
nity of  our  tutor's  manners  seems  to  disconcert  the  dear 
Duke,  who  doesn't  like  him,  and  is  never  at  ease  with  him; 
he  can't  bear  to  come  in  contact  with  superiority  of  any 
kind. 

As  soon  as  my  father  knows  enough  Spanish,  we  start  for 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  177 

Madrid.  When  Henarez  returned,  two  days  after  the  re- 
proof he  had  given  me,  I  remarked  by  way  of  showing  my 
gratitude : 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  you  left  Spain  in  consequence 
of  political  events.  If  my  father  is  sent  there,  as  seems  to 
be  expected,  we  shall  be  in  a  position  to  help  you,  and  might 
be  able  to  obtain  your  pardon,  in  case  you  are  under  sen- 
tence." 

"It  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  help  me/'  he  replied. 

"But,"  I  said,  "is  that  because  you  refuse  to  accept  any 
help,  or  because  -the  thing  itself  is  impossible  ?" 

"Both,"  he  said,  with  a  bow,  and  in  a  tone  which  forbade 
continuing  the  subject. 

My  father's  blood  chafed  in  my  veins.  I  was  offended  by 
this  haughty  demeanor,  and  promptly  dropped  Senor 
Henarez. 

All  the  same,  my  dear,  there  is  something  fine  in  this  re- 
jection of  any  aid.  "He  would  not  accept  even  our  friend- 
ship," I  reflected,  whilst  conjugating  a  verb.  Suddenly  I 
stopped  short  and  told  him  what  was  in  my  mind,  but  in 
Spanish.  Henarez  replied  very  politely  that  equality  of 
sentiment  was  necessary  between  friends,  which  did  not  exist 
in  this  case,  and  therefore  it  was  useless  to  consider  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Do  you  mean  equality  in  the  amount  of  feeling  on  either 
side,  or  equality  in  rank?"  I  persisted,  determined  to  shake 
him  out  of  this  provoking  gravity. 

He  raised  once  more  those  awe-inspiring  eyes,  and  mine 
fell  before  them.  Dear,  this  man  is  a  hopeless  enigma.  He 
seemed  to  ask  whether  my  words  meant  love;  and  the  mix- 
ture of  joy,  pride,  and  agonized  doubt  in  his  glance  went 
to  my  heart.  It  was  plain  that  advances,  which  would  be 
taken  for  what  they  were  worth  in  France,  might  land  me 
in  difficulties  with  a  Spaniard,  and  I  drew  back  into  my  shell, 
feeling  not  a  little  foolish. 

The  lesson  over,  he  bowed,  and  his  eyes  were  eloquent  of 
the  humble  prayer :  "Don't  trifle  with  a  poor  wretch." 


178  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

This  sudden  contrast  to  his  usual  grave  and  dignified 
manner  made  a  great  impression  on  me.  It  seems  horrible 
to  think  and  to  say,  but  I  can't  help  believing  that  there  are 
treasures  of  affection  in  that  man. 


IX 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU. 

December. 

ALL  is  over,  my  dear  child,  and  it  is  Mme.  de  1'Estorade  who 
writes  to  you.  But  between  us  there  is  no  change;  it  is  only 
a  girl  the  less. 

Don't  be  troubled;  I  did  not  give  my  consent  recklessly 
or  without  much  thought.  My  life  is  henceforth  mapped  out 
for  me,  and  the  freedom  from  all  uncertainty  as  to  the  road 
to  follow  suits  my  mind  and  disposition.  A  great  moral 
power  has  stepped  in,  and  once  for  all  swept  what  we  call 
chance  out  of  my  life.  We  have  the  property  to  develop, 
our  home  to  beautify  and  adorn ;  for  me  there  is  also  a  house- 
hold to  direct  and  sweeten  and  a  husband  to  reconcile  to 
life.  In  all  probability  I  shall  have  a  family  to  look  after, 
children  to  educate. 

What  would  you  have?  Everyday  life  cannot  be  cast  in 
heroic  mould.  No  doubt  there  seems,  at  any  rate  at  first 
sight,  no  room  left  in  this  scheme  of  life  for  that  longing 
after  the  infinite  which  expands  the  mind  and  soul.  But 
what  is  there  to  prevent  me  from  launching  on  that  bound- 
less sea  our  familiar  craft?  Nor  must  you  suppose  that 
the  humble  duties  to  which  I  dedicate  my  life  give  no  scope 
for  passion.  To  restore  faith  in  happiness  to  an  unfortunate, 
who  has  been  the  sport  of  adverse  circumstances,  is  a  noble 
work,  and  one  which  alone  may  suffice  to  relieve  the  monotony 
of  my  existence.  I  can  see  no  opening  left  for  suffering, 
and  I  see  a  great  deal  of  good  to  be  done.  I  need  not  hide 
from  you  that  the  love  I  have  for  Louis  de  1'Estorade  is  not 
of  the  kind  which  makes  the  heart  throb  at  the  sound  of  a 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  179 

step,  and  thrills  us  at  the  lightest  tones  of  a  voice,  or  the 
caress  of  a  burning  glance;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is 
nothing  in  him  which  offends  me. 

What  am  I  to  do,  you  will  ask,  with  that  instinct  for  all 
which  is  great  and  noble,  with  those  mental  energies,  which 
have  made  the  link  between  us,  and  which  we  still  possess? 
I  admit  that  this  thought  has  troubled  me.  But  are  these 
faculties  less  ours  because  we  keep  them  concealed,  using 
them  only  in  secret  for  the  welfare  of  the  family,  as  instru- 
ments to  produce  the  happiness  of  those  confided  to  our  care, 
to  whom  we  are  bound  to  give  ourselves  without  reserve? 
The  time  during  which  a  woman  can  look  for  admiration  is 
short,  it  will  soon  be  past;  and  if  my  life  has  not  been  a 
great  one,  it  will  at  least  have  been  calm,  tranquil,  free  from 
shocks. 

Nature  has  favored  our  sex  in  giving  us  a  choice  between 
love  and  motherhood.  I  have  made  mine.  My  children  shall 
be  my  gods,  and  this  spot  of  earth  my  Eldorado. 

I  can  say  no  more  to-day.  Thank  you  much  for  all  the 
things  you  have  sent  me.  Give  a  glance  at  my  needs  on  the 
enclosed  list.  I  am  determined  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
refinement  and  luxury,  and  to  take  from  provincial  life  only 
what  makes  its  charm.  In  solitude  a  woman  can  never  be  vul- 
garized— she  remains  herself.  I  count  greatly  on  your  kind- 
ness for  keeping  me  up  to  the  fashion.  My  father-in-law  is 
so  delighted  that  he  can  refuse  me  nothing,  and  turns  his 
house  upside  down.  We  are  getting  workpeople  from  Paris 
and  renovating  everything. 


MLLE.   DE   CHAULIEU  TO  MME.  DE  I/ESTORADE 

January. 

OH  !  Eenee,  you  have  made  me  miserable  for  days !  So  that 
bewitching  body,  those  beautiful  proud  features,  that 
natural  grace  of  manner,  that  soul  full  of  priceless  gifts, 


180  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

those  eyes,  where  the  soul  can  slake  its  thirst  as  at  a  fountain 
of  love,  that  heart,  with  its  exquisite  delicacy,  that  breadth 
of  mind,  those  rare  powers — fruit  of  nature  and  of  our  inter- 
change of  thought — treasures  whence  should  issue  a  unique 
satisfaction  for  passion  and  desire,  hours  of  poetry  to  out- 
weigh years,  joys  to  make  a  man  serve  a  lifetime  for  one 
gracious  gesture, — all  this  is  to  be  buried  in  the  tedium  of 
a  tame,  commonplace  marriage,  to  vanish  in  the  emptiness 
of  an  existence  which  you  will  come  to  loathe !  I  hate  your 
children  before  they  are  born.  They  will  be  monsters ! 

So  you  know  all  that  lies  before  you;  you  have  nothing 
left  to  hope,  or  fear,  or  suffer?  And  supposing  the  glorious 
morning  rises  which  will  bring  you  face  to  face  with  the  man 
destined  to  rouse  you  from  the  sleep  into  which  you  are 
plunging!  .  .  .  Ah!  a  cold  shiver  goes  through  me  at 
the  thought ! 

Well,  at  least  you  have  a  friend.  You,  it  is  understood, 
are  to  be  the  guardian  angel  of  your  valley.  You  will  grow 
familiar  with  its  beauties,  will  live  with  it  in  all  its  aspects, 
till  the  grandeur  of  nature,  the  slow  growth  of  vegetation, 
compared  with  the  lightning  rapidity  of  thought,  become 
like  a  part  of  yourself ;  and  as  your  eye  rests  on  the  laughing 
flowers,  you  will  question  your  own  heart.  When  you  walk 
between  your  husband,  silent  and  contented,  in  front,  and 
your  children  screaming  and  romping  behind,  I  can  tell  you 
beforehand  what  you  will  write  to  me.  Your  misty  valley, 
your  hills,  bare  or  clothed  with  magnificent  trees,  your 
meadow,  the  wonder  of  Provence,  with  its  fresh  water  dis- 
persed in  little  runlets,  the  different  effects  of  the  atmosphere, 
this  whole  world  of  infinity  which  laps  you  round,  and  which 
God  has  made  so  various,  will  recall  to  you  the  infinite  same- 
ness of  your  soul's  life.  But  at  least  I  shall  be  there,  my 
Eenee,  and  in  me  you  will  find  a  heart  which  no  social  petti- 
ness shall  ever  corrupt,  a  heart  all  your  own. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  181 

Monday. 

MY  dear,  my  Spaniard  is  quite  adorably  melancholy;  there 
is  something  calm,  severe,  manly,  and  mysterious  about  him 
which  interests  me  profoundly.  His-  unvarying  solemnity 
and  the  silence  which  envelops  him  act  like  an  irritant  on 
the  mind.  His  mute  dignity  is  worthy  of  a  fallen  king. 
Griffith  and  I  spend  our  time  over  him  as  though  he  were  a 
riddle. 

How  odd  it  is!  A  language-master  captures  my  fancy 
as  no  other  man  has  done.  Yet  by  this  time  I  have  passed  in 
review  all  the  young  men  of  family,  the  attaches  to  embassies, 
and  the  ambassadors,  generals,  and  inferior  officers,  the  peers 
of  France,  their  sons  and  nephews,  the  court,  and  the  town. 

The  coldness  of  the  man  provokes  me.  The  sandy  waste 
which  he  tries  to  place,  and  does  place,  between  us  is  cov- 
ered by  his  deep-rooted  pride;  he  wraps  himself  in  mystery. 
The  hanging  back  is  on  his  side,  the  boldness  on  mine.  This 
odd  situation  affords  me  the  more  amusement  because  the 
whole  thing  is  mere  trifling.  What  is  a  man,  a  Spaniard, 
and  a  teacher  of  languages  to  me?  I  make  no  account  of 
any  man  whatever,  were  he  a  king.  We  are  worth  far  more, 
I  am  sure,  than  the  greatest  of  them.  What  a  slave  I  would 
have  made  of  Napoleon !  If  he  had  loved  me,  shouldn't  he 
have  felt  the  whip ! 

Yesterday  I  aimed  a  shaft  at  M.  Henarez  which  must  have 
touched  him  to  the  quick.  He  made  no  reply;  the  lesson 
was  over,  and  he  bowed  with  a  glance  at  me,  in  which  I 
read  that  he  would  never  return.  This  suits  me  capitally; 
there  would  be  something  ominous  in  starting  an  imitation 
Nouvelle  Helo'ise.  I  have  just  been  reading  Eousseau's,  and 
it  has  left  me  with  a  strong  distaste  for  love.  Passion  which 
can  argue  and  moralize  seems  to  me  detestable. 

Clarissa  also  is  much  too  pleased  with  herself  and  her 
long,  little  letter;  but  Richardson's  work  is  an  admirable  pict- 
ure, my  father  tells  me,  of  English  women.  Rousseau's 
seems  to  me  a  sort  of  philosophical  sermon,  cast  in  the  form 
of  letters. 


182  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Love,  as  I  conceive  it,  is  a  purely  subjective  poem.  In 
all  that  books  tell  us  about  it,  there  is  nothing  which  is  not 
at  once  false  and  true.  And  so,  my  pretty  one,  as  you  will 
henceforth  be  an  authority  only  on  conjugal  love,  it  seems 
to  me  my  duty — in  the  interest,  of  course,  of  our  common  life 
— to  remain  unmarried  and  have  a  grand  passion,  so  that  we 
may  enlarge  our  experience. 

Tell  me  every  detail  of  what  happens  to  you,  especially  in 
the  first  few  days,  with  that  strange  animal  called  a  husband. 
I  promise  to  do  the  same  for  you  if  ever  I  am  loved. 

Farewell,  poor  martyred  darling. 


XI 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU 

La  Orampade. 

YOUR  Spaniard  and  you  make  me  shudder,  my  darling.  I 
write  this  line  to  beg  of  you  to  dismiss  him.  All  that  you  say 
of  him  corresponds  with  the  character  of  those  dangerous 
adventurers  who,  having  nothing  to  lose,  will  take  any  risk. 
This  man  cannot  be  your  husband,  and  must  not  be  your 
lover.  I  will  write  to  you  more  fully  about  the  inner  history 
of  my  married  life  when  my  heart  is  free  from  the  anxiety 
your  last  letter  has  roused  in  it. 


XII 


MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  MME.   DE  L^ESTORADE 

February. 

AT  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  sweetheart,  my  father  was  an- 
nounced in  my  rooms.  I  was  up  and  dressed.  I  found  him 
solemnly  seated  beside  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  look- 
ing more  thoughtful  than  usual.  He  pointed  to  the  arm- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  183 

chair  opposite  to  him.  Divining  his  meaning,  I  sank  into  it 
with  a  gravity,  which  so  well  aped  his,  that  he  could  not  re- 
frain from  smiling,  though  the  smile  was  dashed  with  melan- 
choly. 

"You  are  quite  a  match  for  your  grandmother  in  quick- 
wittedness,"  he  said. 

"Come,  father,  don't  play  the  courtier  here,"  I  replied; 
"you  want  something  from  me." 

He  rose,  visibly  agitated,  and  talked  to  me  for  half  an  hour. 
This  conversation,  dear,  really  ought  to  be  preserved.  As 
soon  as  he  had  gone,  I  sat  down  to  my  table  and  tried  to 
recall  his  words.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  seen  my 
father  revealing  his  inner  thoughts. 

He  began  by  nattering  me,  and  he  did  not  do  it  badly.  I 
was  bound  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  having  understood  and 
appreciated  me. 

"Armande,"  he  said,  "I  was  quite  mistaken  in  you,  and 
you  have  agreeably  surprised  me.  When  you  arrived  from 
the  convent,  I  took  you  for  an  average  young  girl,  ignorant 
and  not  particularly  intelligent,  easily  to  be  bought  off  with 
gewgaws  and  ornaments,  and  with  little  turn  for  reflection." 

"You  are  complimentary  to  young  girls,  father." 

"Oh !  there  is  no  such  thing  as  youth  nowadays,"  he  said, 
with  the  air  of  a  diplomat.  "Your  mind  is  amazingly  open. 
You  take  everything  at  its  proper  worth;  your  clear-sighted- 
ness is  extraordinary,  there  is  no  hoodwinking  you.  You  pass 
for  being  blind,  and  all  the  time  you  have  laid  your  hand 
on  causes,  while  other  people  are  still  puzzling  over  effects. 
In  short,  you  are  a  minister  in  petticoats,  the  only  person  here 
capable  of  understanding  me.  It  follows,  then,  that  if  I 
have  any  sacrifice  to  ask  from  you,  it  is  only  to  yourself  I 
can  turn  for  help  in  persuading  you. 

"I  am  therefore  going  to  explain  to  you,  quite  frankly, 
my  former  plans,  to  which  I  still  adhere.  In  order  to 
recommend  them  to  you,  I  must  show  that  they  are  connected 
with  feelings  of  a  very  high  order,  and  I  shall  thus  be  obliged 
to  enter  into  political  questions  of  the  greatest  importance 


184  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

to  the  kingdom,  which  might  be  wearisome  to  any  one  less 
intelligent  than  you  are.  When  you  have  heard  me,  I  hope 
you  will  take  time  for  consideration,  six  months  if  necessary. 
You  are  entirely  your  own  mistress;  and  if  you  decline  to 
make  the  sacrifice  I  ask,  I  shall  bow  to  your  decision  and 
trouble  you  no  further." 

This  preface,  my  sweetheart,  made  me  really  serious,  and 
I  said: 

"Speak,  father." 

Here,  then,  is  the  deliverance  of  the  statesman: 

"My  child,  France  is  in  a  very  critical  position,  which  is 
•understood  only  by  the  King  and  a  few  superior  minds.  But 
the  King  is  a  head  without  arms ;  the  great  nobles,  who  are 
in  the  secret  of  the  danger,  have  no  authority  over  the  men 
whose  co-operation  is  needful  in  order  to  bring  about  a  happy 
result.  These  men,  cast  up  by  popular  election,  refuse  to 
lend  themselves  as  instruments.  Even  the  able  men  among 
them  carry  on  the  work  of  pulling  down  society,  instead  of 
helping  us  to  strengthen  the  edifice. 

"In  a  word,  there  are  only  two  parties — the  party  of 
Marius  and  the  party  of  Sulla.  I  am  for  Sulla  against 
Marius.  This,  roughly  speaking,  is  our  position.  To  go  more 
into  details:  the  Eevolution  is  still  active-;  it  is  embedded 
in  the  law  and  written  on  the  soil;  it  fills  people's  minds. 
The  danger  is  all  the  greater  because  the  greater  number 
of  the  King's  counselors,  seeing  it  destitute  of  armed  forces 
and  of  money,  believe  it  completely  vanquished.  The  King 
is  an  able  man,  and  not  easily  blinded ;  but  from  day  to  day 
he  is  won  over  by  his  brother's  partisans,  who  want  to  hurry 
things  on.  He  has  not  two  years  to  live,  and  thinks  more 
of  a  peaceful  deathbed  than  of  anything  else. 

"Shall  I  tell  you,  my  child,  which  is  the  most  destructive 
of  all  the  consequences  entailed  by  the  Revolution?  You 
would  never  guess.  In  Louis  XVI.  the  Eevolution  has  de- 
capitated every  head  of  a  family.  The  family  has  ceased  to 
exist;  we  have  only  individuals.  In  their  desire  to  become 
a  nation,  Frenchmen  have  abandoned  the  idea  of  empire;  in 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  185 

proclaiming  the  equal  rights  of  all  children  to  their  father's 
inheritance,  they  have  killed  family  spirit  and  have  created 
the  State  treasury.  But  all  this  has  paved  the  way  for 
weakened  authority,  for  the  blind  force  of  the  masses,  for 
the  decay  of  art  and  the  supremacy  of  individual  interests, 
and  has  left  the  road  open  to  the.  foreign  invader. 

"We  stand  between  two  policies — either  to  found  the  State 
on  the  basis  of  the  family,  or  to  rest  it  on  individual  inter- 
est— in  other  words,  between  democracy  and  aristocracy,  be- 
tween free  discussion  and  obedience,  between  Catholicism 
.ind  religious  indifference.  I  am  among  the  few  who  are  re- 
solved to  oppose  what  is  called  the  people,  and  that  in  the 
people's  true  interest.  It  is  not  now  a  question  of  feudal 
rights,  as  fools  are  told,  nor  of  rank;  it  is  a  question  of  the 
State  and  of  the  existence  of  France.  The  country  which 
does  not  rest  on  the  foundation  of  paternal  authority  cannot 
be  stable.  That  is  the  foot  of  the  ladder  of  responsibility 
and  subordination,  which  has  for  its  summit  the  King. 

"The  King  stands  for  us  all.  .To  die  for  the  King  is  to 
die  for  oneself,  for  one's  family,  which,  like  the  kingdom, 
cannot  die.  All  animals  have  certain  instincts;  the  instinct 
of  man  is  for  family  life.  A  country  is  strong  which  con- 
sists of  wealthy  families,  every  member  of  whom  is  interested 
in  defending  a  common  treasure;  it  is  weak  when  composed 
of  scattered  individuals,  to  whom  it  matters  little  whether 
they  obey  seven  or  one,  a  Eussian  or  a  Corsican,  so  long  as 
each  keeps  his  own  plot  of  land,  blind,  in  their  wretched 
egotism,  to  the  fact  that  the  day  is  coming  when  this  too 
will  be  torn  from  them. 

"Terrible  calamities  are  in  store  for  us,  in  case  our  party 
fails.  Nothing  will  be  left  but  penal  or  fiscal  laws — your 
money  or  your  life.  The  most  generous  nation  on  the  earth 
will  have  ceased  to  obey  the  call  of  noble  instincts.  Wounds 
past  curing  will  have  been  fostered  and  aggravated,  an  all- 
pervading  jealousy  being  the  first.  Then  the  upper  classes 
will  be  submerged;  equality-  of  desire  will  be  taken  for 
equality  of  strength ;  true  distinction,  even  when  proved  and 


186  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

recognized,  will  be  threatened  by  the  advancing  tide  of  mid- 
dle-class prejudice.  It  was  possible  to  choose  one  man  out 
of  a  thousand,  but,  amongst  three  millions,  discrimination 
becomes  impossible,  when  all  are  moved  by  the  same  ambi- 
tions and  attired  in  the  same  livery  of  mediocrity.  No  fore- 
sight will  warn  this  victorious  horde  of  that  other  terrible 
horde,  soon  to  be  arrayed  against  them  in  the  peasant  pro- 
prietors; in  other  words,  twenty  million  acres  of  land,  alive, 
stirring,  arguing,  deaf  to  reason,  insatiable  of  appetite,  ob- 
structing progress,  masters  in  their  brute  force " 

"But,"  said  I,  interrupting  my  father,  "what  can  I  do  to 
help  the  State.  I  feel  no  vocation  for  playing  Joan  of  Arc 
in  the  interests  of  the  family,  or  for  finding  a  martyr's  block 
in  the  convent." 

"You  are  a  little  hussy,"  cried  my  father.  "If  I  speak 
sensibly  to  you,  you  are  full  of  jokes;  when  I  jest,  you  talk 
like  an  ambassadress." 

"Love  lives  on  contrasts,"  was  my  reply. 

And  he  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"You  will  reflect  on  what  I  have  told  you;  you  will  do 
justice  to  the  large  and  confiding  spirit  in  which  I  have 
broached  the  matter,  and  possibly  events  may  assist  my  plans. 
I  know  that,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  they  are  injurious 
and  unfair,  and  this  is  the  reason  why  I  appeal  for  your  sanc- 
tion of  them  less  to  your  heart  and  your  imagination  than 
to  your  reason.  I  have  found  more  judgment  and  common- 
sense  in  you  than  in  any  one  I  know " 

"You  flatter  yourself,"  I  said,  with  a  smile,  "for  I  am 
every  inch  your  child !" 

"In  short,"  he  went  on,  "one  must  be  logical.  You  can't 
have  the  end  without  the  means,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  set  an 
example  to  others.  From  all  this  I  deduce  that  you  ought 
not  to  have  money  of  your  own  till  your  younger  brother 
is  provided  for,  and  I  want  to  employ  the  whole  of  your 
inheritance  in  purchasing  an  estate  for  him  to  go  with  the 
title." 

"But,"  I  said,  "you  won't  interfere  with  my  living  in  my 
own  fashion  and  enjoying  life  if  I  leave  you  my  fortune?" 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  187 

"Provided,"  he  replied,  "that  your  view  of  life  does  not 
conflict  with  the  family  honor,  reputation,  and,  I  may  add, 
glory." 

"Come,  come/'  I  cried,  "what  has  become  of  my  excellent 
judgment  ?" 

"There  is  not  in  all  France,"  he  said  with  bitterness,  "a 
man  who  would  take  for  wife  a  daughter  of  one  of  our  noblest 
families  without  a  dowry  and  bestow  one  on  her.  If  such 
a  husband  could  be  found,  it  would  be  among  the  class  of 
rich  parvenus;  on  this  point  I  belong  to  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury." 

"And  I  also,"  I  said.  "But  why  despair?  Are  there  no 
aged  peers?" 

"You  are  an  apt  scholar,  Louise !"  he  exclaimed. 

Then  he  left  me,  smiling  and  kissing  my  hand. 

I  received  your  letter  this  very  morning,  and  it  led  me  to 
contemplate  that  abyss  into  which  you  say  that  I  may  fall, 
A  voice  within  seemed  to  utter  the  same  warning.  So  I 
took  my  precautions.  Henarez,  my  dear,  dares  to  look  at 
me,  and  his  eyes  are  disquieting.  They  inspire  me  with  what 
I  can  only  call  an  unreasoning  dread.  Such  a  man  ought 
no  more  to  be  looked  at  than  a  frog ;  he  is  ugly  and  fascinat- 
ing. 

For  two  days  I  have  been  hesitating  whether  to  tell  my 
father  point-blank  that  I  want  no  more  Spanish  lessons  and 
have  Henarez  sent  about  his  business.  But  in  spite  of  all 
my  brave  resolutions,  I  feel  that  the  horrible  sensation  which 
comes  over  me  when  I  see  that  man  has  become  necessary 
to  me.  I  say  to  myself,  "Once  more,  and  then  I  will  speak." 

His  voice,  my  dear,  is  sweetly  thrilling;  his  speaking  is 
just  like  la  Fodor's  singing.  His  manners  are  simple,  en- 
tirely free  from  affectation.  And  what  teeth! 

Just  now,  as  he  was  leaving,  he  seemed  to  divine  the  in- 
terest I  take  in  him,  and  made  a  gesture — oh !  most  respect- 
fully— as  though  to  take  my  hand  and  kiss  it ;  then  checked 
himself,  apparently  terrified  at  his  own  boldness  and  the 
chasm  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  bridging.  There  was  the 


188  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

merest  suggestion  of  all  this,  but  I  understood  it  and  smiled, 
for  nothing  is  more  pathetic  than  to  see  the  frank  impulse 
of  an  inferior  checking  itself  abashed.  The  love  of  a  ple- 
beian for  a  girl  of  noble  birth  implies  such  courage ! 

My  smile  emboldened  him.  The  poor  fellow  looked  blindly 
about  for  his  hat;  he  seemed  determined  not  to  find  it,  and 
I  handed  it  to  him  with  perfect  gravity.  His  eyes  were  wet 
with  unshed  tears.  It  was  a  mere  passing  moment,  yet  a 
world  of  facts  and  ideas  were  contained  in  it.  We  under- 
stood each  other  so  well  that,  on  a  sudden,  I  held  out  my 
hand  for  him  to  kiss. 

Possibly  this  was  equivalent  to  telling  him  that  love  might 
bridge  the  interval  between  us.  Well,  I  cannot  tell  what 
moved  me  to  do  it.  Griffith  had  her  back  turned  as  I  proudly 
extended  my  little  white  paw.  I  felt  the  fire  of  his  lips, 
tempered  by  two  big  tears.  Oh !  my  love,  I  lay  in  my  arm- 
chair, nerveless,  dreamy.  I  was  happy,  and  I  cannot  explain 
to  you  how  or  why.  What  I  felt  only  a  poet  could  express. 
My  condescension,  which  fills  me  with  shame  now,  seemed 
to  me  then  something  to  be  proud  of ;  he  had  fascinated  me, 
that  is  my  one  excuse. 

Friday. 

This  man  is  really  very  handsome.  He  talks  admirably, 
and  has  remarkable  intellectual  power.  My  dear,  he  is  a 
very  Bossuet  in  force  and  persuasiveness  when  he  explains 
the  mechanism,  not  only  of  the  Spanish  tongue,  but  also  of 
human  thought  and  of  all  language.  His  mother  tongue 
seems  to  be  French.  When  I  expressed  surprise  at  this,  he 
replied  that  he  came  to  France  when  quite  a  boy,  following 
the  King  of  Spain  to  Valengay. 

What  has  passed  within  this  enigmatic  being?  He  is  no 
longer  the  same  man.  He  came,  dressed  quite  simply,  but 
just  as  any  gentleman  would  be  for  a  morning  walk.  He 
put  forth  all  his  eloquence,  and  flashed  wit,  like  rays  from 
a  beacon,  all  through  the  lesson.  Like  a  man  roused  from 
lethargy,  he  revealed  to  me  a  new  world  of  thoughts.  He 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  189 

told  me  the  story  of  some  poor  devil  of  a  valet  who  gave  up 
his  life  for  a  single  glance  from  a  queen  of  Spain. 

"What  could  he  do  but  die  ?"  I  exclaimed. 

This  delighted  him,  and  he  looked  at  me  in  a  way  which 
was  truly  alarming. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  a  ball  at  the  Duchesse  de  Lenon- 
court's.  The  Prince  de  Talleyrand  happened  to  be  there; 
and  I  got  M.  de  Vandenesse,  a  charming  young  man,  to  ask 
him  whether,  among  the  guests  at  his  country-place  in  1809, 
he  remembered  any  one  of  the  name  of  Henarez.  Vande- 
nesse  reported  the  Prince's  reply,  word  for  word,  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Henarez  is  the  Moorish  name  of  the  Soria  family,  who 
are,  they  say,  descendants  of  the  Abencerrages,  converted  to 
Christianity.  The  old  Duke  and  his  two  sons  were  with  the 
King.  The  eldest,  the  present  Duke  de  Soria,  has  just  had 
all  his  property,  titles,  and  dignities  confiscated  by  King 
Ferdinand,  who  in  this  way  avenges  a  long-standing  feud. 
The  Duke  made  a  huge  mistake  in  consenting  to  form  a 
constitutional  ministry  with  Valdez.  Happily,  he  escaped 
from  Cadiz  before  the  arrival  of  the  Due  d'Angouleme,  who, 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  could  not  have  saved  him  from 
the  King's  wrath." 

This  information  gave  me  much  food  for  reflection.  I  can- 
not describe  to  you  the  suspense  in  which  I  passed  the  time 
till  my  next  lesson,  which  took  place  this  morning. 

During  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  I  examined  him 
closely,  debating  inwardly  whether  he  were  duke  or  com- 
moner, without  being  able  to  come  to  any  conclusion.  He 
seemed  to  read  my  fancies  as  they  arose  and  to  take  pleasure 
in  thwarting  them.  At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
Putting  down  my  book  suddenly,  I  broke  off  the  translation 
I  was  making  of  it  aloud,  and  said  to  him  in  Spanish : 

"You  are  deceiving  us.  You  are  no  poor  middle-class 
Liberal.  You  are  the  Due  de  Soria !" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  with  a  gesture  of  sorrow,  "un- 
happily, I  am  not  the  Due  de  Soria." 


190  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

I  felt  all  the  despair  with  which  he  uttered  the  word 
"unhappily."  Ah !  my  dear,  never  should  I  have  conceived  it 
possible  to  throw  so  much  meaning  and  passion  into  a 
single  word.  His  eyes  had  dropped,  and  he  dared  no  longer 
look  at  me. 

"M.  de  Talleyrand,"  I  said,  "in  whose  house  you  spent 
your  years  of  exile,  declares  that  any  one  bearing  the  name 
of  Henarez  must  either  be  the  late  Due  de  Soria  or  a  lacquey." 

He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  like  two  black  burning  coals, 
at  once  blazing  and  ashamed.  The  man  might  have  been 
in  the  torture-chamber.  All  he  said  was: 

"My  father  was  in  truth  a  servant  of  the  King  of  Spain." 

Griffith  could  make  nothing  of  this  sort  of  lesson.  An 
awkward  silence  followed  each  question  and  answer. 

"In  one  word,"  I  said,  "are  you  a  nobleman  or  not  ?" 

"You  know  that  in  Spain  even  beggars  are  noble." 

This  reticence  provoked  me.  Since  the  last  lesson  I  had 
given  play  to  my  imagination  in  a  little  practical  joke.  I 
had  drawn  an  ideal  portrait  of  the  man  whom  I  should  wish 
for  my  lover  in  a  letter  which  I  designed  giving  to  him  to 
translate.  So  far,  I  had  only  put  Spanish  into  French,  not 
French  into  Spanish ;  I  pointed  this  out  to  him,  and  begged 
Griffith  to  bring  me  the  last  letter  I  had  received  from  a 
friend  of  mine. 

"I  shall  find  out,"  I  thought,  "from  the  effect  my  sketch 
has  on  him,  what  sort  of  blood  runs  in  his  veins." 

I  took  the  paper  from  Griffith's  hands,  saying: 

"Let  me  see  if  I  have  copied  it  rightly." 

For  it  was  all  in  my  writing.  I  handed  him  the  paper,  or, 
if  you  will,  the  snare,  and  I  watched  him  while  he  read  as 
follows : 

"He  who  is  to  win  my  heart,  my  dear,  must  be  harsh  and 
unbending  with  men,  but  gentle  with  women.  His  eagle  eye 
must  have  power  to  quell  with  a  single  glance  the  least  ap- 
proach to  ridicule.  He  will  have  a  pitying  smile  for  those 
who  would  jeer  at  sacred  things,  above  all,  at  that  poetry  of 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  191 

the  heart,  without  which  life  would  be  but  a  dreary  con- 
monplace.  I  have  the  greatest  scorn  for  those  who  would 
rob  us  of  the  living  fountain  of  religious  beliefs,  so  rich  in 
solace.  His  faith,  therefore,  should  have  the  simplicity  of 
a  child,  though  united  to  the  firm  conviction  of  an  intelligent 
man,  who  has  examined  the  foundations  of  his  creed.  His 
fresh  and  original  way  of  looking  at  things  must  be  entirely 
free  from  affectation  or  desire  to  show  off.  His  words  will 
be  few  and  fit,  and  his  mind  so  richly  stored,  that  he  cannot 
possibly  become  a  bore  to  himself  any  more  than  to  others. 

"All  his  thoughts  must  have  a  high  and  chivalrous  char- 
acter, without  alloy  of  self-seeking;  while  his  actions  should 
be  marked  by  a  total  absence  of  interested  or  sordid  motives. 
Any  weak  points  he  may  have  will  arise  from  the  very  eleva- 
tion of  his  views  above  those  of  the  common  herd,  for  in 
every  respect  I  would  have  him  superior  to  his  age.  Ever 
mindful  of  the  delicate  attentions  due  to  the  weak,  he  will 
be  gentle  to  all  women,  but  not  prone  lightly  to  fall  in  love 
with  any;  for  love  will  seem  to  him  too  serious  to  turn  into 
a  game. 

"Thus  it  might  happen  that  he  would  spend  his  life  in 
ignorance  of  true  love,  while  all  the  time  possessing  those 
qualities  most  fitted  to  inspire  it.  But  if  ever  he  find  the 
ideal  woman  who  has  haunted  his  waking  dreams,  if  he  meet 
with  a  nature  capable  of  understanding  his  own,  one  who 
could  fill  his  soul  and  pour  sunlight  over  his  life,  could  shine 
as  a  star  through  the  mists  of  this  chill  and  gloomy  world, 
lend  fresh  charm  to  existence,  and  draw  music  from  the 
hitherto  silent  chords  of  his  being — needless  to  say,  he  would 
recognize  and  welcome  his  good  fortune. 

"And  she,  too,  would  be  happy.  Never,  by  word  or  look, 
would  he  wound  the  tender  heart  which  abandoned  itself  to 
him,  with  the  blind  trust  of  a  child  reposing  in  its  mother's 
arms.  For  were  the  vision  shattered,  it  would  be  the  wreck 
of  her  inner  life.  To  the  mighty  waters  of  love  she  would 
confide  her  all ! 

"The  man  I  picture  must  belong,  in  expression,  in  attitude, 


192  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

in  gait,  in  his  way  of  performing  alike  the  smallest  and  the 
greatest  actions,  to  that  race  of  the  truly  great  who  are  always 
simple  and  natural.  He  need  not  be  good-looking,  but  his 
hands  must  be  beautiful.  His  upper  lip  will  curl  with  a  care- 
less, ironic  smile  for  the  general  public,  whilst  he  reserves  for 
those  he  loves  the  heavenly,  radiant  glance  in  which  he  puts 
his  soul." 

"Will  mademoiselle  allow  me,"  he  said  in  Spanish,  in  a 
voice  full  of  agitation,  "to  keep  this  writing  in  memory  of 
her?  This  is  the  last  lesson  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  giving 
her,  and  that  which  I  have  just  received  in  these  words  may 
serve  me  for  an  abiding  rule  of  life.  I  left  Spain,  a  fugitive 
and  penniless,  but  I  have  to-day  received  from  my  family  a 
sum  sufficient  for  my  needs.  You  will  allow  me  to  send  some 
poor  Spaniard  in  my  place." 

In  other  words,  he  seemed  to  me  to  say,  "This  little  game 
must  stop."  He  rose  with  an  air  of  marvelous  dignity,  and 
left  me  quite  upset  by  such  unheard-of  delicacy  in  a  man  of 
his  class.  He  went  downstairs  and  asked  to  speak  with  my 
father. 

At  dinner  my  father  said  to  me  with  a  smile : 

"Louise,  you  have  been  learning  Spanish  from  an  ex-min- 
ister and  a  man  condemned  to  death." 

"The  Due  de  Soria,"  I  said. 

"Duke!"  replied  my  father.  "No,  he  is  not  that  any 
longer;  he  takes  the  title  now  of  Baron  de  Macumer  from  a 
property  which  still  remains  to  him  in  Sardinia.  He  is 
something  of  an  original,  I  think." 

"Don't  brand  with  that  word,  which  with  you  always 
implies  some  mockery  and  scorn,  a  man  who  is  your  equal, 
and  who,  I  believe,  has  a  noble  nature." 

"Baronne  de  Macumer?"  exclaimed  my  father,  with  a 
laughing  glance  at  me. 

Pride  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  table. 

"But,"  said  my  mother,  "Henarez  must  have  met  the 
Spanish  ambassador  on  the  steps?" 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  193 

"Yes,"  replied  my  father,  "the  ambassador  asked  me  if  I 
was  conspiring  against  the  King,  his  master;  but  he  greeted 
the  ex-grandee  of  Spain  with  much  deference,  and  placed  his 
services  at  his  disposal." 

All  this,  dear  Mme.  de  1'Estorade,  happened  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  it  is  a  fortnight  now  since  I  have  seen  the  man  who 
loves  me,  for  that  he  loves  me  there  is  not  a  doubt.  What  is 
he  about  ?  If  only  I  were  a  fly,  or  a  mouse,  or  a  sparrow ! 
I  want  to  see  him  alone,  myself  unseen,  at  his  house.  Only 
think,  a  man  exists,  to  whom  I  can  say,  "Go  and  die  for  me !" 
And  he  is  so  made  that  he  would  go,  at  least  I  think  so. 
Anyhow,  there  is  in  Paris  a  man  who  occupies  my  thoughts, 
and  whose  glance  pours  sunshine  into  my  soul.  Is  not  such  a 
man  an  enemy,  whom  I  ought  to  trample  under  foot  ?  What  ? 
There  is  a  man  who  has  become  necessary  to  me — a  man 
without  whom  I  don't  know  how  to  live !  You  married,  and 
I — in  love!  Four  little  months,  and  those  two  doves,  whose 
wings  erst  bore  them  so  high,  have  fluttered  down  upon  the 
flat  stretches  of  real  life ! 

Sunday. 

Yesterday,  at  the  Italian  Opera,  I  could  feel  some  one  was 
looking  at  me;  my  eyes  were  drawn,  as  by  a  magnet,  to  two 
wells  of  fire,  gleaming  like  carbuncles  in  a  dim  corner  of  the 
orchestra.  Henarez  never  moved  his  eyes  from  me.  The 
wretch  had  discovered  the  one  spot  from  which  he  could  see 
me — and  there  he  was.  I  don't  know  what  he  may  be  as  a 
politician,  but  for  love  he  has  a  genius. 

Behold,  my  fair  Ren6e,  where  our  business  now  stands, 
as  the  great  Corneille  has  said. 


194  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

XIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU 

LA  CEAMPADE,  February. 

MY  DEAR  LOUISE, — I  was  bound  to  wait  some  time  before 
writing  to  you;  but  now  I  know,  or  rather  I  have  learned, 
many  things  which,  for  the  sake  of  your  future  happiness,  I 
must  tell  you.  The  difference  between  a  girl  and  a  married 
woman  is  so  vast,  that  the  girl  can  no  more  comprehend  it 
than  the  married  woman  can  go  back  to  girlhood  again. 

I  chose  to  marry  Louis  de  1'Estorade  rather  than  return  to 
the  convent;  that  at  least  is  plain.  So  soon  as  I  realized 
that  the  convent  was  the  only  alternative  to  marrying  Louis, 
I  had,  as  girls  say,  to  "submit,"  and  my  submission  once 
made,  the  next  thing  was  to  examine  the  situation  and  try  to 
make  the  best  of  it. 

The  serious  nature  of  what  I  was  undertaking  filled  me 
at  first  with  terror.  Marriage  is  a  matter  concerning  the 
whole  of  life,  whilst  love  aims  only  at  pleasure.  On  the  other 
hand,  marriage  will  remain  when  pleasures  have  vanished, 
and  it"  is  the  source  of  interests  far  more  precious  than  those 
of  the  man  and  woman  entering  on  the  alliance.  Might  it 
not  therefore  be  that  the  only  requisite  for  a  happy  marriage 
was  friendship — a  friendship  which,  for  the  sake  of  these 
advantages,  would  shut  its  eyes  to  many  of  the  imperfections 
of  humanity?  Xow  there  was  no  obstacle  to  the  existence 
of  friendship  between  myself  and  Louis  de  1'Estorade.  Hav- 
ing renounced  all  idea  of  finding  in  marriage  those  transports 
of  love  on  which  our  minds  used  so  often,  and  with  such 
perilous  rapture,  to  dwell,  I  found  a  gentle  calm  settling  over 
me.  "If  debarred  from  love,  why  not  seek  for  happiness?'"' 
I  said  to  myself.  "Moreover,  I  am  loved,  and  the  love  offered 
me  I  shall  accept.  My  married  life  will  be  no  slavery,  but 
rather  a  perpetual  reign.  What  is  there  to  say  against  such 
a  situation  for  a  woman  who  wishes  to  remain  absolute  mis- 
tress of  herself  ?" 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  195 

The  important  point  of  separating  marriage  from  marital 
rights  was  settled  in  a  conversation  between  Louis  and  me. 
in  the  course  of  which  he  gave  proof  of  an  excellent  temper 
and  a  tender  heart.  Darling,  my  desire  was  to  prolong  that 
fair  season  of  hope  which,  never  culminating  in  satisfaction, 
leaves  to  the  soul  its  virginity.  To  grant  nothing  to  duty 
or  the  law,  to  be  guided  entirely  by  one's  own  will,  retaining 
perfect  independence — what  could  be  more  attractive,  more 
honorable  ? 

A  contract  of  this  kind,  directly  opposed  to  the  legal  con- 
tract, and  even  to  the  sacrament  itself,  could  be  concluded 
only  between  Louis  and  me.  This  difficulty,  the  first  which 
has  arisen,  is  the  only  one  which  has  delayed  the  completion 
of  our  marriage.  Although,  at  first,  I  may  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  accept  anything  rather  than  return  to  the  convent, 
it  is  only  in  human  nature,  having  got  an  inch,  to  ask  for  an 
ell,  and  you  and  I,  sweet  love,  are  of  those  who  would  have  all. 

I  watched  Louis  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  and  put  it 
to  myself,  "Has  suffering  had  a  softening  or  a  hardening 
effect  on  him  ?"  By  dint  of  close  study.  I  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  his  love  amounted  to  a  passion.  Once  trans- 
formed into  an  idol,  whose  slightest  frown  would  turn  him 
white  and  trembling,  I  realized  that  I  might  venture  any- 
thing. I  drew  him  aside  in  the  most  natural  manner  on 
solitary  walks,  during  which  I  discreetly  sounded  his  feelings. 
I  made  him  talk,  and  got  him  to  expound  to  me  his  ideas 
and  plans  for  our  future.  My  questions  betrayed  so  many 
preconceived  notions,  and  went  so  straight  for  the  weak  points 
in  this  terrible  dual  existence,  that  Louis  has  since  confessed 
to  me  the  alarm  it  caused  him  to  find  in  me  so  little  of  the 
ignorant  maiden. 

Then  I  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say  in  reply.  He  got 
mixed  up  in  his  arguments,  as  people  do  when  handicapped 
by  fear;  and  before  long  it  became  clear  that  chance  had 
given  me  for  adversary  one  who  was  the  less  fitted  for  the 
contest  because  he  was  conscious  of  what  you  magniloquently 
call  my  "greatness  of  soul."  Broken  by  sufferings  and  misfor^ 


196  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

tune,  he  looked  on  himself  as  a  sort  of  wreck,  and  three  fears 
in  especial  haunted  him. 

First,  we  are  aged  respectively  thirty-seven  and  seventeen ; 
and  he  could  not  contemplate  without  quaking  the  twenty 
years  that  divide  us.  In  the  next  place,  he  shares  our  views 
on  the  subject  of  my  beauty,  and  it  is  cruel  for  him  to  see 
how  the  hardships  of  his  life  have  robbed  him  of  youth. 
Finally,  he  felt  the  superiority  of  my  womanhood  over  his 
manhood.  The  consciousness  of  these  three  obvious  draw- 
backs made  him  distrustful  of  himself ;  he  doubted  his  power 
to  make  me  happy,  and  guessed  that  he  had  been  chosen  as 
the  lesser  of  two  evils. 

One  evening  he  tentatively  suggested  that  I  only  married 
him  to  escape  the  convent. 

"I  cannot  deny  it,"  was  my  grave  reply. 

My  dear,  it  touched  me  to  the  heart  to  see  the  two  great 
tears  which  stood  in  his  eyes.  Never  before  had  I  experienced 
the  shock  of  emotion  which  a  man  can  impart  to  us. 

"Louis,"  I  went  on,  as  kindly  as  I  could,  "it  rests  entirely 
with  you  whether  this  marriage  of  convenience  becomes  one  to 
which  I  can  give  my  whole  heart.  The  favor  I  am  about  to 
ask  from  you  will  demand  unselfishness  on  your  part,  far 
nobler  than  the  servitude  to  which  a  man's  love,  when  sincere, 
is  supposed  to  reduce  him.  The  question  is,  Can  you  rise  to 
the  height  of  friendship  such  as  I  understand  it? 

"Life  gives  us  but  one  friend,  and  I  wish  to  be  yours. 
Friendship  is  the  bond  between  a  pair  of  kindred  souls,  united 
in  their  strength,  and  yet  independent.  Let  us  be  friends 
and  comrades  to  bear  jointly  the  burden  of  life.  Leave  me 
absolutely  free.  I  would  put  no  hindrance  in  the  way  of  your 
inspiring  me  with  a  love  similar  to  your  own;  but  I  am  deter- 
mined to  be  yours  only  of  my  own  free  gift.  Create  in  me  the 
wish  to  give  up  my  freedom,  and  at  once  I  lay  it  at  your  feet. 

"Infuse  with  passion,  then,  if  you  will,  this  friendship,  and 
let  the  voice  of  love  disturb  its  calm.  On  my  part  I 
will  do  what  I  can  to  bring  my  feelings  into  accord  with  yours. 
One  thing,  above  all,  I  would  beg  of  you.  Spare  me  the 


197 

annoyances  to  which  the  strangeness  of  our  mutual  position 
might  give  rise  in  our  relations  with  others.  I  am  neither 
whimsical  nor  prudish,  and  should  he  sorry  to  get  that  repu- 
tation; but  I  feel  sure  that  I  can  trust  to  your  honor  when 
I  ask  you  to  keep  up  the  outward  appearance  of  wedded  life." 

Never,  dear,  have  I  seen  a  man  so  happy  as  my  proposal 
made  Louis.  The  blaze  of  joy  which  kindled  in  his  eyes  dried 
up  the  tears. 

"Do  not  fancy,"  I  concluded,  "that  I  ask  this  from  any 
wish  to  be  eccentric.  It  is  the  great  desire  I  have  for  your 
respect  which  prompts  my  request.  If  you  owe  the  crown  of 
your  love  merely  to  the  legal  and  religious  ceremony,  what 
gratitude  could  you  feel  to  me  later  for  a  gift  in  which  my 
goodwill  counted  for  nothing?  If  during  the  time  that  I  re- 
mained indifferent  to  you  (yielding  only  a  passive  obedience, 
such  as  my  mother  has  just  been  urging  on  me)  a  child  were 
born  to  us,  do  you  suppose  that  I  could  feel  towards  it  as 
I  would  towards  one  born  of  our  common  love  ?  A  passionate 
love  may  not  be  necessary  in  marriage,  but,  at  least,  you  will 
admit  that  there  should  be  no  repugnance.  Our  position  will 
not  be  without  its  dangers;  in  a  country  life,  such  as  ours 
will  be,  ought  we  not  to  bear  in  mind  the  evanescent  nature 
of  passion?  Is  it  not  simple  prudence  to  make  provision 
beforehand  against  the  calamities  incident  to  change  of  feel- 
ing?" 

He  was  greatly  astonished  to  find  me  at  once  so  reasonable 
and  so  apt  at  reasoning;  but  he  made  me  a  solemn  promise, 
after  which  I  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  affectionately. 

We  were  married  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Secure  of  my 
freedom,  I  was  able  to  throw  myself  gaily  into  the  petty 
details  which  always  accompany  a  ceremony  of  the  kind,  and 
to  be  my  natural  self.  Perhaps  I  may  have  been  taken  for 
an  old  bird,  as  they  say  at  Blois.  A  young  girl,  delighted 
with  the  novel  and  hopeful  situation  she  had  contrived  to 
make  for  herself,  may  have  passed  for  a  strong-minded 
female. 

Dear,  the  difficulties  which  would  beset  my  life  had  ap- 


198  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

» 

peared  to  me  clearly  as  in  a  vision,  and  I  was  sincerely 
anxious  to  make  the  happiness  of  the  man  I  married.  Xow, 
in  the  solitude  of  a  life  like  ours,  marriage  soon  becomes  in- 
tolerable unless  the  woman  is  the  presiding  spirit.  A  woman 
in  such  a  case  needs  the  charm  of  a  mistress,  combined  with 
the  solid  qualities  of  a  wife.  To  introduce  an  element  of  un- 
certainty into  pleasure  is  to  prolong  illusion,  and  render  last- 
ing those  selfish  satisfactions  which  all  creatures  hold,  and 
justly  hold,  so  precious.  Conjugal  love,  in  my  view  of  it, 
should  shroud  a  woman  in  expectancy,  crown  her  sovereign, 
and  invest  her  with  an  exhaustless  power,  a  redundancy  of 
life,  that  makes  everything  blossom  around  her.  The  more 
she  is  mistress  of  herself,  the  more  certainly  will  the  love  and 
happiness  she  creates  be  fit  to  weather  the  storms  of  life. 

But,  above  all,  I  have  insisted  on  the  greatest  secrecy  in 
regard  to  our  domestic  arrangements.  A  husband  who  sub- 
mits to  his  wife's  yoke  is  justly  held  an  object  of  ridicule. 
A  woman's  influence  ought  to  be  entirely  concealed.  The 
charm  of  all  we  do  lies  in  its  unobtrusiveness.  If  I  have 
made  it  my  task  to  raise  a  drooping  courage  and  restore  their 
natural  brightness  to  gifts  which  I  have  dimly  descried,  it 
must  all  seem  to  spring  from  Louis  himself. 

Such  is  the  mission  to  which  I  dedicate  myself,  a  mission 
surely  not  ignoble,  and  which  might  well  satisfy  a  woman's 
ambition.  Why,  I  could  glory  in  this  secret  which  shall  fill 
my  life  with  interest,  in  this  task  towards  which  my  every 
energy  shall  be  bent,  while  it  remains  concealed  from  all  but 
God  and  you. 

I  am  very  nearly  happy  now,  but  should  I  be  so  without  a 
friendly  heart  in  which  to  pour  the  confession?  For  how 
make  a  confidant  of  him  ?  My  happiness  would  wound  him, 
and  has  to  be  concealed.  He  is  sensitive  as  a  woman,  like  all 
men  who  have  suffered  much. 

For  three  months  we  remained  as  we  were  before  marriage. 
As  you  may  imagine,  during  this  time  I  made  a  close  study 
of  many  small  personal  matters,  which  have  more  to  do  with 
love  than  is  generally  suppose^.  In  spite  of  my  coldness, 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  199 

Louis  grew  bolder,  and  his  nature  expanded.  I  saw  on  his 
face  a  new  expression,  a  look  of  youth.  The  greater  refine- 
ment which  I  introduced  into  the  house  was  reflected  in  his 
person.  Insensibly  I  became  accustomed  to  his  presence,  and 
made  another  self  of  him.  By  dint  of  constant  watching  I 
discovered  how  his  mind  and  countenance  harmonize.  "The 
animal  that  we  call  a  husband,"  to  quote  your  words,  disap- 
peared, and  one  balmy  evening  I  discovered  in  his  stead  a 
lover,  whose  words  thrilled  me  and  on  whose  arm  I  leant  with 
pleasure  beyond  words.  In  short,  to  be  open  with  you,  as  I 
would  be  with  God,  before  whom  concealment  is  impossible, 
the  perfect  loyalty  with  which  he  had  kept  his  oath  may 
have  piqued  me,  and  I  felt  a  fluttering  of  curiosity  in  my 
heart.  Bitterly  ashamed,  I  struggled  with  myself.  Alas ! 
when  pride  is  the  only  motive  for  resistance,  excuses  for  capit- 
ulation are  soon  found. 

We  celebrated  our  union  in  secret,  and  secret  it  must  remain 
between  us.  When  you  are  married  you  will  approve  this 
reserve.  Enough  that  nothing  was  lacking  either  of  satis- 
faction for  the  most  fastidious  sentiment,  or  of  that  unex- 
pectedness which  brings,  in  a  sense,  its  own  sanction.  Every 
witchery  of  imagination,  of  passion,  of  reluctance  overcome, 
of  the  ideal  passing  into  reality,  played  its  part. 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  enchantment,  I  once  more  stood  out 
for  my  complete  independence.  I  can't  tell  you  all  my  reasons 
for  this.  To  you  alone  shall  I  confide  even  as  much  as  this. 
I  believe  that  women,  whether  passionately  loved  or  not,  lose 
much  in  their  relation  with  their  husbands  by  not  concealing 
their  feelings  about  marriage  and  the  way  they  look  at  it. 

My  one  joy,  and  it  is  supreme,  springs  from  the  certainty  of 
having  brought  new  life  to  my  husband  before  I  have  borne 
him  any  children.  Louis  has  regained  his  youth,  strength, 
and  spirits.  He  is  not  the  same  man.  With  magic  touch  I 
have  effaced  the  very  memory  of  his  sufferings.  It  is  a  com- 
plete metamorphosis.  Louis  is  really  very  attractive  now. 
Feeling  sure  of  my  affection,  he  throws  off  his  reserve  and 
displays  unsuspected  gifts. 


200  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

To  be  the  unceasing  spring  of  happiness  for  a  man  who 
knows  it  and  adds  gratitude  to  love,  all!  dear  one,  this  is  a 
conviction  which  fortifies  the  soul,  even  more  than  the  most 
passionate  love  can  do.  The  force  thus  developed — at  once 
impetuous  and  enduring,  simple  and  diversified — brings 
forth  ultimately  the  family,  that  noble  product  of  womanhood, 
which  I  realize  now  in  all  its  animating  beauty. 

The  old  father  has  ceased  to  be  a  miser.  He  gives  blindly 
whatever  I  wish  for.  The  servants  are  content;  it  seems  as 
though  the  bliss  of  Louis  had  let  a  flood  of  sunshine  into  the 
household,  where  love  has  made  me  queen.  Even  the  old 
man  would  not  be  a  blot  upon  my  pretty  home,  and  has 
brought  himself  into  line  with  all  my  improvements;  to 
please  me  he  has  adopted  the  dress,  and  with  the  dress,  the 
manners  of  the  day. 

We  have  English  horses,  a  coupe,  a  barouche,  and  a  tilbury. 
The  livery  of  our  servants  is  simple  but  in  good  taste.  Of 
course  we  are  looked  on  as  spendthrifts.  I  apply  all  my 
intellect  (I  am  speaking  quite  seriously)  to  managing  my 
household  with  economy,  and  obtaining  for  it  the  maximum 
of  pleasure  with  the  minimum  of  cost. 

I  have  already  convinced  Louis  of  the  necessity  of  getting 
roads  made,  in  order  that  he  may  earn  the  reputation  of  a 
man  interested  in  the  welfare  of  his  district.  I  insist  too 
on  his  studying  a  great  deal.  Before  long  I  hope  to  see  him 
a  member  of  the  Council  General  of  the  Department,  through 
the  influence  of  my  family  and  his  mother's.  I  have  told  him 
plainly  that  I  am  ambitious,  and  that  I  was  very  well  pleased 
his  father  should  continue  to  look  after  the  estate  and  practise 
economies,  because  I  wished  him  to  devote  himself  exclusively 
to  politics.  If  we  had  children,  I  should  like  to  see  them 
all  prosperous  and  with  good  State  appointments.  Under 
penalty,  therefore,  of  forfeiting  my  esteem  and  affection,  he 
must  get  himself  chosen  deputy  for  the  department  at  the 
coming  elections;  my  family  would  support  his  candidature, 
and  we  should  then  have  the  delight  of  spending  all  our 
winters  in  Paris.  Ah !  my  love,  by  the  ardor  with  which  he 
embraced  my  plans,  I  can  gauge  the  depth  of  his  affection. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BEIDES  201 

To  conclude,  here  is  a  letter  he  wrote  me  yesterday  from 
Marseilles,  where  he  had  gone  to  spend  a  few  hours : 

"MY  SWEET  RENEE, — When  you  gave  me  permission  to 
love  you,  I  began  to  believe  in  happiness ;  now,  I  see  it  unfold- 
ing endlessly  before  me.  The  past  is  merely  a  dim  memory, 
a  shadowy  background,  without  which  my  present  bliss  would 
show  less  radiant.  When  I  am  with  you,  love  so  transports  me 
that  I  am  powerless  to  express  the  depth  of  my  affection; 
I  can  but  worship  and  admire.  Only  at  a  distance  does  the 
power  of  speech  return.  You  are  supremely  beautiful,  Renee, 
and  your  beauty  is  of  the  statuesque  and  regal  type,  on  which 
time  leaves  but  little  impression.  No  doubt  the  love  of  hus- 
band and  wife  depends  less  on  outward  beauty  than  on  graces 
of  character,  which  are  yours  also  in  perfection ;  still,  let  me 
say  that  the  certainty  of  having  your  unchanging  beauty,  on 
which  to  feast  my  eyes,  gives  me  a  joy  that  grows  with  every 
glance.  There  is  a  grace  and  dignity  in  the  lines  of  your  face, 
expressive  of  the  noble  soul  within,  and  breathing  of  purity 
beneath  the  vivid  coloring.  The  brilliance  of  your  dark  eyes, 
the  bold  sweep  of  your  forehead,  declare  a  spirit  of  no  com- 
mon elevation,  sound  and  trustworthy  in  every  relation,  and 
well  braced  to  meet  the  storms  of  life,  should  such  arise.  The 
keynote  of  your  character  is  its  freedom  from  all  pettiness. 
You  do  not  need  to  be  told  all  this;  but  I  write  it  because  I 
would  have  you  know  that  I  appreciate  the  treasure  I  possess. 
Your  favors  to  me,  however  slight,  will  always  make  my 
happiness  in  the  far-distant  future  as  now;  for  I  am  sensible 
how  much  dignity  there  is  in  our  promise  to  respect  each 
other's  liberty.  Our  own  impulse  shall  with  us  alone  dictate 
the  expression  of  feeling.  We  shall  be  free  even  in  our  fetters. 
I  shall  have  the  more  pride  in  wooing  you  again  now  that  I 
know  the  reward  you  place  on  victory.  You  cannot  speak, 
breathe,  act,  or  think,  without  adding  to  the  admiration  I 
feel  for  your  charm  both  of  body  and  mind.  There  is  in  you 
a  rare  combination  of  the  ideal,  the  practical,  and  the  be- 
witching which  satisfies  alike  judgment,  a  husband's  pride, 


202 

desire,  and  hope,  and  which  extends  the  boundaries  of  love 
beyond  those  of  life  itself.  Oh!  my  loved  one,  may  the 
genius  of  love  remain  faithful  to  me,  and  the  future  be  full 
of  those  delights  by  means  of  which  you  have  glorified  all  that 
surrounds  me !  I  long  for  the  day  which  shall  make  you  a 
mother,  that  I  may  see  you  content  with  the  fulness  of  your 
life,  may  hear  you,  in  the  sweet  voice  I  love  and  with  the 
words  that  so  marvelously  express  your  subtle  and  original 
thoughts,  bless  the  love  which  has  refreshed  my  soul  and 
given  new  vigor  to  my  powers,  the  love  which  is  my  pride, 
and  whence  I  have  drawn,  as  from  a  magic  fountain,  fresh 
life.  Yes,  I  shall  be  all  that  you  would  have  me.  I  shall  take 
a  leading  part  in  the  public  life  of  the  district,  and  on  you 
shall  fall  the  rays  of  a  glory  which  will  owe  its  existence  to 
the  desire  of  pleasing  you." 

So  much  for  my  pupil,  dear !  Do  you  suppose  he  could 
have  written  like  this  before?  A  year  hence  his  style  will 
have  still  further  improved.  Louis  is  now  in  his  first  trans- 
port; what  I  look  forward  to  is  the  uniform  and  continuous 
sensation  of  content  which  ought  to  be  the  fruit  of  a  happy 
marriage,  when  a  man  and  woman,  in  perfect  trust  and 
mutual  knowledge,  have  solved  the  problem  of  giving  variety 
to  the  infinite.  This  is  the  task  set  before  every  true  wife; 
the  answer  begins  to  dawn  on  me,  and  I  shall  not  rest  till  I 
have  made  it  mine. 

You  see  that  he  fancies  himself — vanity  of  men! — the 
chosen  of  my  heart,  just  as  though  there  were  no  legal  bonds. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  not  yet  got  beyond  that  external  attrac- 
tion which  gives  us  strength  to  put  up  with  a  good  deal.  Yet 
Louis  is  lovable ;  his  temper  is  wonderfully  even,  and  he  per- 
forms, as  a  matter  of  course,  acts  on  which  most  men  would 
plume  themselves.  In  short,  if  I  do  not  love  him,  I  shall  find 
no  difficulty  in  being  good  to  him. 

So  here  are  my  black  hair  and  my  black  eyes — whose  lashes 
act,  according  to  you,  like  Venetian  blinds — my  commanding 
air,  and  my  whole  person,  raised  to  the  rani  of  sovereign 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  203 

power!  Ten  years  hence,  dear,  why  should  we  not  both  be 
laughing  and  gay  in  your  Paris,  whence  I  shall  carry  you  off 
now  and  again  to  my,  beautiful  oasis  in  Provence  ? 

Oh!  Louise,  don't  spoil  the  splendid  future  which  awaits 
us  both !  Don't  do  the  mad  things  with  which  you  threaten 
me.  My  husband  is  a  young  man,  prematurely  old;  why 
don't  you  marry  some  young-hearted  graybeard  in  the  Cham- 
ber of  Peers?  There  lies  your  vocation. 


XIV 

THE  DUG  DE  SOKIA  TO  THE  BAROJST  DE  MACUMER 

MADRID. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, — You  did  not  make  me  Due  de  Soria 
in  order  that  my  actions  should  belie  the  name.  How  could 
I  tolerate  my  happiness  if  I  knew  you  to  be  a  wanderer,  de- 
prived of  the  comforts  which  wealth  everywhere  commands? 
Neither  Marie  nor  I  will  consent  to  marry  till  we  hear  that 
you  have  accepted  the  money  which  Urraca  will  hand  over  to 
you.  These  two  millions  are  the  fruit  of  your  own  savings 
and  Marie's. 

We  have  both  prayed,  kneeling  before  the  same  altar — 
and  with  what  earnestness,  God  knows ! — for  your  happiness. 
My  dear  brother.,  it  cannot  be  that  these  prayers  will  remain 
unanswered.  Heaven  will  send  you  the  love  which  you  seek, 
to  be  the  consolation  of  your  exile.  Marie  read  your  letter 
with  tears,  and  is  full  of  admiration  for  you.  As  for  me, 
I  consent,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  that  of  the  family. 
The  King  justified  your  expectations.  Oh!  that  I  might 
avenge  you  by  letting  him  see  himself,  dwarfed  before  the 
pcorn  with  which  you  flung  him  his  toy,  as  you  might  toss 
a  tiger  its  food. 

The  only  thing  I  have  taken  for  myself,  dear  brother,  is 
my  happiness.  I  have  taken  Marie.  For  this  I  shall  always 
be  beholden  to  you,  as  the  creature  to  the  Creator.  There  will 


204  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

be  in  my  life  and  in  Marie's  one  day  not  less  glorious  than 
our  wedding  day — it  will  be  the  day  when  we  hear  that  youi 
heart  has  found  its  mate,,  that  a  woman  loves  you  as  you 
ought  to  be,  and  would  be,  loved.  Do  not  forget  that  if  you 
live  for  us,  we  also  live  for  you. 

You  can  write  to  us  with  perfect  confidence  under  cover  to 
the  Nuncio,  sending  your  letters  via  Home.  The  French  am- 
bassador at  Eome  will,  no  doubt,  undertake  to  forward  them 
to  Monsignore  Bemboni,  at  the  State  Secretary's  office,  whom 
our  legate  will  have  advised.  No  other  way  would  be  safe. 
Farewell,  dear  exile,  dear  despoiled  one.  Be  proud  at  least 
of  the  happiness  which  you  have  brought  to  us,  if  you  cannot 
be  happy  in  it.  God  will  doubtless  hear  our  prayers,  which 
axe  full  of  your  name. 


XV 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  MME.  DE  I/ESTORADE 

March. 

AH  !  my  love,  marriage  is  making  a  philosopher  of  you  !  Your 
darling  face  must,  indeed,  have  been  jaundiced  when  you 
wrote  me  those  terrible  views  of  human  life  and  the  duty  of 
women.  Do  you  fancy  you  will  convert  me  to  matrimony  by 
your  programme  of  subterranean  labors  ? 

Alas !  is  this  then  the  outcome  for  you  of  our  too-instructed 
dreams !  We  left  Blois  all  innocent,  armed  with  the  pointed 
shafts  of  meditation,  and,  lo !  the  weapons  of  that  purely  ideal 
experience  have  turned  against  your  own  breast!  If  I  did 
not  know  you  for  the  purest  and  most  angelic  of  created 
beings,  I  declare  I  should  say  that  your  calculations  smack  of 
vice.  What,  my  dear,  in  the  interest  of  your  country  home, 
you  submit  your  pleasures  to  a  periodic  thinning,  as  you  do 
your  timber.  Oh!  rather  let  me  perish  in  all  the  violence 
of  the  heart's  storms  than  live  in  the  arid  atmosphere  of  your 
cautious  arithmetic! 

As  girls,  we  were  both  unusually  enlightened,  because  of 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  205 

the  large  amount  of  study  we  gave  to  our  chosen  subjects; 
but,  my  child,  philosophy  without  love,  or  disguised  under  a 
sham  love,  is  the  most  hideous  of  conjugal  hypocrisies.  I 
should  imagine  that  even  the  biggest  of  fools  might  detect 
now  and  again  the  owl  of  wisdom  squatting  in  your  bower 
of  roses — a  ghastly  phantom  sufficient  to  put  to  flight  the 
most  promising  of  passions.  You  make  your  own  fate,  in- 
stead of  waiting,  a  plaything  in  its  hands. 

We  are  each  developing  in  strange  -ways.  A  large  dose  of 
philosophy  to  a  grain  of  love  is  your  recipe;  a  large  dose  of 
love  to  a  grain  of  philosophy  is  mine.  Why,  Kousseau's  Julie, 
whom  I  thought  so  learned,  is  a  mere  beginner  to  you.  Wo- 
man's virtue,  quotha  !  How  you  have  weighed  up  life  !  Alas  ! 
I  make  fun  of  you,  and,  after  all,  perhaps  you  are  right. 

In  one  day  you  have  made  a  holocaust  of  your  youth  and 
become  a  miser  before  your  time.  Your  Louis  will  be  happy, 
I  daresay.  If  he  loves  you,  of  which  I  make  no  doubt,  he 
will  never  find  out,  that,  for  the  sake  of  your  family,  you 
are  acting  as  a  courtesan  does  for  money;  and  certainly  men 
seem  to  find  happiness  with  them,  judging  by  the  fortunes 
they  squander  thus.  A  keen-sighted  husband  might  no  doubt 
remain  in  love  with  you,  but  what  sort  of  gratitude  could 
he  feel  in  the  long  run  for  a  woman  who  had  made  of  duplicity 
a  sort  of  moral  armor,  as  indispensable  as  her  stays? 

Love,  dear,  is  in  my  eyes  the  first  principle  of  all  the  vir- 
tues, conformed  to  the  divine  likeness.  Like  all  other  first 
principles,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  arithmetic ;  it  is  the  Infinite 
in  us.  I  cannot  but  think  you  have  been  trying  to  justify 
in  your  own  eyes  the  frightful  position  of  a  girl,  married  to 
a  man  for  whom  she  feels  nothing  more  than  esteem.  You 
prate  of  duty,  and  make  it  your  rule  and  measure;  but 
surely  to  take  necessity  as  the  spring  of  action  is  the  moral 
theory  of  atheism?  To  follow  the  impulse  of  love  and 
feeling  is  the  secret  law  of  every  woman's  heart.  You  are 
acting  a  man's  part,  and  your  Louis  will  have  to  play  the 
woman ! 

Oh !  my  dear,  your  letter  has  plunged  me  into  an  endless 


206  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDE8 

train  of  thought.  I  see  now  that  the  convent  can  never  take 
the  place  of  mother  to  a  girl.  I  beg  of  you,  my  grand  angel 
with  the  black  eyes,  so  pure  and  proud,  so  serious  and  so 
pretty,  do  not  turn  away  from  these  cries,  which  the  first 
reading  of  your  letter  has  torn  from  me !  I  have  taken  com- 
fort in  the  thought  that,  while  I  was  lamenting,  love  was 
doubtless  busy  knocking  down  the  scaffolding  of  reason. 

It  may  be  that  I  shall  do  worse  than  you  without  any 
reasoning  or  calculations.  Passion  is  an  element  in  life  bound 
to  have  a  logic  not  less  pitiless  than  yours. 

Monday. 

Yesterday  night  I  placed  myself  at  the  window  as  I  was 
going  to  bed,  to  look  at  the  sky,  which  was  wonderfully  clear. 
The  stars  were  like  silver  nails,  holding  up  a  veil  of  blue. 
In  the  silence  of  the  night  I  could  hear  some  one  breathing, 
and  by  the  half-light  of  the  stars  I  saw  my  Spaniard,  perched 
like  a  squirrel  on  the  branches  of  one  of  the  trees  lining  the 
boulevard,  and  doubtless  lost  in  admiration  of  my  windows. 

The  first  effect  of  this  discovery  was  to  make  me  withdraw 
into  the  room,  my  feet  and  hands  quite  limp  and  nerveless; 
but,  beneath  the  fear,  I  was  conscious  of  a  delicious  under- 
current of  joy.  I  was  overpowered  but  happy.  Not  one  of 
those  clever  Frenchmen,  who  aspire  to  marry  me,  has  had 
.the  brilliant  idea  of  spending  the  night  in  an  elm-tree  at 
the  risk  of  being  carried  off  by  the  watch.  My  Spaniard 
has,  no  doubt,  been  there  for  some  time.  Ah !  he  won't  give 
me  any  more  lessons,  he  wants  to  receive  them — well,  he 
shall  have  one.  If  only  he  knew  what  I  said  to  myself  about 
his  superficial  ugliness !  Others  can  philosophize  besides 
you,  Renee!  It  was  horrid,  I  argued,  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  handsome  man.  Is  it  not  practically  avowing  that  the 
senses  count  for  three  parts  out  of  four  in  a  passion  which 
ought  to  be  super-sensual  ? 

Having  got  over  my  first  alarm,  I  craned  my  neck  behind 
the  window  in  order  to  see  him  again — and  well  was  I  re- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  207 

warded !  By  means  of  a  hollow  cane  he  blew  me  in  through 
the  window  a  letter,  cunningly  rolled  round  a  leaden  pellet. 

Good  Heavens !  will  he  suppose  I  left  the  window  open  on 
purpose  ? 

But  what  was  to  be  done?  To  shut  it  suddenly  would  be 
to  make  oneself  an  accomplice. 

I  did  better.  I  returned  to  my  window  as  though  I  had 
seen  nothing  and  heard  nothing  of  the  letter,  then  I  said 
aloud : 

"Come  and  look  at  the  stars,  Griffith." 

Griffith  was  sleeping  as  only  old  maids  can.  But  the  Moor, 
hearing  me,  slid  down,  and  vanished  with  ghostly  rapidity. 

He  must  have  been  dying  of  fright,  and  so  was  I,  for  I 
did  not  hear  him  go  away;  apparently  he  remained  at  the 
foot  of  the  elm.  After  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour,  during 
which  I  lost  myself  in  contemplation  of  the  heavens,  and 
battled  with  the  waves  of  curiosity,  I  closed  my  window  and 
sat  down  on  the  bed  to  unfold  the  delicate  bit  of  paper,  with 
the  tender  touch  of  a  worker  amongst  the  ancient  manuscripts 
at  Naples.  It  felt  redhot  to  my  fingers.  "What  a  horrible 
power  this  man  has  over  me  I"  I  said  to  myself. 

All  at  once  I  held  out  the  paper  to  the  candle — I  would 
burn  it  without  reading  a  word.  Then  a  thought  stayed 
me,  "What  can  he  have  to  say  that  he  writes  so  secretly?" 
Well,  dear,  I  did  burn  it,  reflecting  that,  though  any  other 
girl  in  the  world  would  have  devoured  the  letter,  it  was  not 
fitting  that  I — Armande-Louise-Marie  de  Chaulieu — should 
read  it. 

The  next  day,  at  the  Italian  opera,  he  was  at  his  post. 
But  I  feel  sure  that,  ex-prime  minister  of  a  constitutional 
government  though  he  is,  he  could  not  discover  the  slightest 
agitation  of  mind  in  any  movement  of  mine.  I  might  have 
seen  nothing  and  received  nothing  the  evening  before.  This 
was  most  satisfactory  to  me,  but  he  looked  very  sad.  Poor 
man!  in  Spain  it  is  so  natural  for  love  to  come  in  at  the 
window ! 

During  the  interval,  it  seems,  he  came  and  walked  in  the 


208  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

passages.  This  I  learned  from  the  chief  secretary  of  the 
Spanish  embassy,  who  also  told  the  story  of  a  noble  action 
of  his. 

As  Due  de  Soria  he  was  to  marry  one  of  the  richest  heir- 
esses in  Spain,  the  young  princess,  Marie  Heredia,  whose 
wealth  would  have  mitigated  the  bitterness  of  exile.  But 
it  seems  that  Marie,  disappointing  the  wishes  of  the  fathers, 
who  had  betrothed  them  in  their  earliest  childhood,  loved 
the  younger  son  of  the  house  of  Soria,  to  whom  my  Felipe 
gave  her  up,  allowing  himself  to  be  despoiled  by  the  King 
of  Spain. 

"He  would  perform  this  .piece  of  heroism  quite  simply," 
I  said  to  the  young  man. 

"You  know  him  then?"  was  his  ingenuous  reply. 

My  mother  smiled. 

"What  will  become  of  him,  for  he  is  condemned  to  death  ?" 
I  asked. 

"Though  dead  to  Spain,  he  can  live  in  Sardinia." 

"Ah !  then  Spain  is  the  country  of  tombs  as  well  as  castles  ?" 
I  said,  trying  to  carry  it  off  as  a  joke. 

"There  is  everything  in  Spain,  even  Spaniards  of  the  old 
school,"  my  mother  replied. 

"The  Baron  de  Macumer  obtained  a  passport,  not  without 
difficulty,  from  the  King  of  Sardinia,"  the  young  diplomatist 
went  on.  "He  has  now  become  a  Sardinian  subject,  and  he 
possesses  a  magnificent  estate  in  the  island  with  full  feudal 
rights.  He  has  a  palace  at  Sassari.  If  Ferdinand  VII.  were 
to  die,  Macumer  would  probably  go  in  for  diplomacy,  and 
the  Court  of  Turin  would  make  him  ambassador.  Though 
young,  he  is " 

"Ah!  he  is  young?" 

"Certainly,  mademoiselle  .  .  .  though  young,  he  is 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  Spain." 

I  scanned  the  house  meanwhile  through  my  opera-glass, 
and  seemed  to  lend  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  secretary;  but, 
between  ourselves,  I  was  wretched  at  having  burnt  his  letter. 
In  what  terms  would  a  man  like  that  express  his  love?  For 


209 

he  does  love  me.  To  be  loved,  adored  in  secret;  to  know  that 
in  this  house,  where  all  the  great  men  of  Paris  were  collected, 
there  was  one  entirely  devoted  to  me,  unknown  to  everybody ! 
Ah!  Eenee,  now  1  understand  the  life  of  Paris,  its  balls, 
and  its  gaieties.  It  all  flashed  on  me  in  the  true  light.  When 
we  love,  we  must  have  society,  were  it  only  to  sacrifice  it  to 
our  love.  I  felt  a  different  creature — and  such  a  happy  one ! 
My  vanity,  pride,  self-love, — all  were  flattered.  Heaven 
knows  what  glances  I  cast  upon  the  audience ! 

"Little  rogue!"  the  Duchess  whispered  in  my  ear  with  a 
smile. 

Yes,  Kenee,  my  wily  mother  had  deciphered  the  hidden  joy 
In  my  bearing,  and  I  could  only  haul  down  my  flag  before 
such  feminine  strategy.  Those  two  words  taught  me  more 
of  worldly  wisdom  than  I  have  been  able  to  pick  up  in  a 
year — for  we  are  in  March  now.  Alas !  no  more  Italian 
opera  in  another  month.  How  will  life  be  possible  without 
that  heavenly  music,  when  one's  heart  is  full  of  love  ? 

When  I  got  home,  my  dear,  with  determination  worthy  of 
a  Chaulieu,  I  opened  my  window  to  watch  a  shower  of  rain. 
Oh!  if  men  knew  the  magic  spell  that  a  heroic  action 
throws  over  us,  they  would  indeed  rise  to  greatness !  a  poltroon 
would  turn  hero !  What  I  had  learned  about  my  Spaniard 
drove  me  into  a  very  fever.  I  felt  certain  that  he  was  there, 
ready  to  aim  another  letter  at  me. 

I  was  right,  and  this  time  I  burnt  nothing.  Here,  then, 
is  the  first  love-letter  I  have  received,  madame  logician :  each 
to  her  kind : — 

"Louise,  it  is  not  for  your  peerless  beauty  I  love  you, 
nor  for  your  gifted  mind,  your  noble  feeling,  the  wondrous 
charm  of  all  you  say  and  do,  nor  yet  for  your  pride,  your 
queenly  scorn  of  baser  mortals — a  pride  blent  in  you  with 
charity,  for  what  angel  could  be  more  tender?- — Louise,  I 
love  you  because,  for  the  sake  of  a  poor  exile,  you  have  unbent 
this  lofty  majesty,  because  by  a  gesture,  a  glance,  you  have 
brought  consolation  to  a  man  so  far  beneath  you  that  the 


210  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

utmost  he  could  hope  for  was  your  pity,  the  pity  of  a  generous 
heart.  You  are  the  one  woman  whose  eyes  have  shone  with 
a  tenderer  light  when  bent  on  me. 

"And  because  you  let  fall  this  glance — a  mere  grain  of 
dust,  yet  a  grace  surpassing  any  bestowed  on  me  when  I  stood 
at  the  summit  of  a  subject's  ambition — I  long  to  tell  you, 
Louise,  how  dear  you  are  to  me,  and  that  my  love  is  for  your- 
self alone,  without  a  thought  beyond,  a  love  that  far  more 
than  fulfils  the  conditions  laid  down  by  you  for  an  ideal  pas- 
sion. 

"Know,  then,  idol  of  my  highest  heaven,  that  there  is  in 
the  world  an  offshoot  of  the  Saracen  race,  whose  life  is  in  your 
hands,  who  will  receive  your  orders  as  a  slave,  and  deem  it 
an  honor  to  execute  them.  I  have  given  myself  to  you  abso- 
lutely and  for  the  mere  joy  of  giving,  for  a  single  glance  of 
yvur  eye,  for  a  touch  of  the  hand  which  one  day  you  offered 
to  your  Spanish  master.  I  am  but  your  servitor,  Louise;  I 
claim  no  more. 

"No,  I  dare  not  think  that  I  could  ever  be  loved ;  but  per- 
chance my  devotion  may  win  for  me  toleration.  Since  that 
morning  when  you  smiled  upon  me  with  generous  girlish  im- 
pulse, divining  the  misery  of  my  lonely  and  rejected  heart, 
you  reign  there  alone.  You  are  the  absolute  ruler  of  my  life, 
the  queen  of  my  thoughts,  the  god  of  my  heart ;  I  find  you  in 
the  sunshine  of  my  home,  the  fragrance  of  my  flowers,  the 
balm  of  the  air  I  breathe,  the  pulsing  of  my  blood,  the  light 
that  visits  me  in  sleep. 

"One  thought  alone  troubled  this  happiness — your  igno- 
rance. All  unknown  to  you  was  this  boundless  devotion,  the 
trusty  arm,  the  blind  slave,  the  silent  tool,  the  wealth — for 
henceforth  all  I  possess  is  mine  only  as  a  trust — which  lay 
at  your  disposal ;  unknown  to  you,  the  heart  waiting  to  receive 
your  confidence,  and  yearning  to  replace  all  that  your  life 
(I  know  it  well)  has  lacked — the  liberal  ancestress,  so  ready 
to  meet  your  needs,  a  father  to  whom  you  could  look  for  pro- 
tection in  every  difficulty,  a  friend,  a  brother.  The  secret  of 
your  isolation  is  no  secret  to  me !  If  I  am  bold,  it  is  because 
I  long  that  you  should  know  how  much  is  yours. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  211 

all,  Louise,  and  in  so  doing  bestow  on  me  the  one 
life  possible  for  me  in  this  world — the  life  of  devotion.  In 
placing  the  yoke  on  my  neck,  you  run  no  risk;  I  ask  nothing 
but  the  joy  of  knowing  myself  yours.  Needless  even  to  say 
you  will  never  love  me;  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  I  must  love 
from  afar,  without  hope,  without  reward  beyond  my  own 
love. 

"In  my  anxiety  to  know  whether  you  will  accept  me  as 
your  servant,  I  have  racked  my  brain  to  find  some  way  in 
which  you  may  communicate  with  me  without  any  danger  of 
compromising  yourself.  Injury  to  your  self-respect  there  can 
be  none  in  sanctioning  a  devotion  which  has  been  yours  for 
many  days  without  your  knowledge.  Let  this,  then,  be  the 
token.  At  the  opera  this  evening,  if  you  carry  in  your  hand  a 
bouquet  consisting  of  one  red  and  one  white  camellia — em- 
blem of  a  man's  blood  at  the  service  of  the  purity  he  worships 
— that  will  be  my  answer.  I  ask  no  more ;  thenceforth,  at  any 
moment,  ten  years  hence  or  to-morrow,  whatever  you  demand 
shall  be  done,  so  far  as  it  is  possible  for  man  to  do  it,  by  your 
happy  servant, 

"FELIPE  HE"NAREZ." 

P.  S. — You  must  admit,  dear,  that  great  lords  know  how 
to  love !  See  the  spring  of  the  African  lion !  What  restrained 
fire  !  What  loyalty !  What  sincerity  !  How  high  a  soul  in  low 
estate!  I  felt  quite  small  and  dazed  as  I  said  to  mvself, 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

It  is  the  mark  of  a  great  man  that  he  puts  to  flight  all 
ordinary  calculations.  He  is  at  once  sublime  and  touching, 
childlike  and  of  the  race  of  giants.  In  a  single  letter  Henarez 
has  outstripped  volumes  from  Lovelace  or  Saint-Preux. 
Here  is  true  love,  no  beating  about  the  bush.  Love  may  be 
or  it  may  not,  but  where  it  is,  it  ought  to  reveal  itself  in  its 
immensity. 

Here  am  I,  shorn  of  all  my  little  arts!  To  refuse  or 
accept !  That  is  the  alternative  boldly  presented  me,  without 
the  ghost  of  an  opening  for  a  middle  course.  No  fencing 


212  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

allowed!  This  is  no  longer  Paris;  we  are  in  the  heart  of 
Spain  or  the  far  East.  It  is  the  voice  of  Abencerrage, 
and  it  is  the  scimitar,  the  horse,  and  the  head  of  Abencerrage 
which  he  offers,  prostrate  before  a  Catholic  Eve !  Shall  I 
accept  this  last  descendant  of  the  Moors?  Eead  again  and 
again  his  Hispano-Saracenic  letter,  Renee  dear,  and  you 
will  see  how  love  makes  a  clean  sweep  of  all  the  Judaic  bar- 
gains of  your  philosophy. 

Renee,  your  letter  lies  heavy  on  my  heart;  you  have  vul- 
garized life  for  me.  What  need  have  I  for  finessing?  Am  I 
not  mistress  for  all  time  of  this  lion  whose  roar  dies  out  in 
plaintive  and  adoring  sighs  ?  Ah !  how  he  must  have  raged 
in  his  lair  of  the  Rue  Hillerin-Bertin !  I  know  where  he  lives, 
I  have  his  card :  F.,  Baron  de  Macumer. 

He  has  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  reply.  All  I  can  do 
is  to  fling  two  camellias  in  his  face.  What  fiendish  arts  does 
love  possess — pure,  honest,  simple-minded  love !  Here  is 
the  most  tremendous  crisis  of  a  woman's  heart  resolved  into 
an  easy,  simple  action.  Oh,  Asia!  I  have  read  the  Arabian 
Nights,  here  is  there  very  essence :  two  flowers,  and  the  ques- 
tion is  settled.  We  clear  the  fourteen  volumes  of  Clarissa 
Harlowe  with  a  bouquet.  I  writhe  before  this  letter,  like  a 
thread  in  the  fire.  To  take,  or  not  to  take,  my  two  camellias. 
Yes  or  No,  kill  or  give  life!  At  last  a  voice  cries  to  me, 
"Test  him!"  And  I  will  test  him. 


XVI 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME 

March. 

I  AM  dressed  in  white — white  camellias  in  my  hair,  and  an- 
other in  my  hand.  My  mother  has  red  camellias ;  so  it  would 
not  be  impossible  to  take  one  from  her — if  I  wished !  I  have 
a  strange  longing  to  put  off  the  decision  to  the  last  moment, 
and  make  him  pay  for  his  red  camellia  by  a  little  suspense. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  213 

"What  a  vision  of  beauty!  Griffith  begged  me  to  stop  for 
a  little  and  be  admired.  The  solemn  crisis  of  the  evening  and 
the  drama  of  my  secret  reply  have  given  me  a  color;  on  each 
cheek  I  sport  a  red  camellia  laid  upon  a  white ! 

1  A.  M. 

Everybody  admired  me,  but  only  one  adored.  He  hung  his 
head  as  I  entered  with  a  white  camellia,  but  turned  pale  as 
the  flower  when,  later,  I  took  a  red  one  from  my  mother's 
hand.  To  arrive  with  the  two  flowers  might  possibly  have 
been  accidental;  but  this  deliberate  action  was  a  reply.  My 
confession,  therefore,  is  fuller  than  it  need  have  been. 

The  opera  was  Romeo  and  Juliet.  As  you  don't  know  the 
duet  of  the  two  lovers,  you  can't  understand  the  bliss  of  two 
neophytes  in  love,  as  they  listen  to  this  divine  outpouring  of 
the  heart. 

On  returning  home  I  went  to  bed,  but  only  to  count  the 
steps  which  resounded  on  the  sidewalk.  My  heart  and  head, 
darling,  are  all  on  fire  now.  What  is  he  doing  ?  What  is  he 
thinking  of  ?  Has  he  a  thought,  a  single  thought,  that  is  not 
of  me?  Is  he,  in  very  truth,  the  devoted  slave  he  painted 
himself?  How  to  be  sure?  Or,  again,  has -it  ever  entered 
his  head  that,  if  I  accept  him,  I  lay  myself  open  to  the  shadow 
of  a  reproach  or  am  in  any  sense  rewarding  or  thanking  him? 
I  am  harrowed  by  the  hair-splitting  casuistry  of  the  heroines 
in  Cyrus  and  Astrcea,  by  all  the  subtle  arguments  of  the  court 
of  love. 

Has  he  any  idea  that,  in  affairs  of  love,  a  woman's  most 
trifling  actions  are  but  the  issue  of  long  brooding  and  inner 
conflicts,  of  victories  won  only  to  be  lost !  What  are  his 
thoughts  at  this  moment?  How  can  I  give  him  my  orders 
to  write  every  evening  the  particulars  of  the  day  just  gone? 
He  is  my  slave  whom  I  ought  to  keep  busy.  I  shall  deluge 
him  with  work ! 

Sunday  Morning. 

Only  towards  morning  did  I  sleep  a  little.  It  is  midday 
now.  I  have  just  got  Griffith  to  write  the  following  letter : 


214  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"To  the  Baron  de  Macumer. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Chaulieu  begs  me,  Monsieur  le  Baron, 
to  ask  you  to  return  to  her  the  copy  of  a  letter  written  to 
her  by  a  friend,  which  is  in  her  own  handwriting,  and  which 
you  carried  away. — Believe  me,  etc.,, 

"GRIFFITH/' 

My  dear,  Griffith  has  gone  out;  she  has  gone  to  the  Eue 
Hillerin-Bertin ;  she  has  handed  in  this  little  love-letter  for 
my  slave,  who  returned  to  me  in  an  envelope  my  ideal  portrait, 
stained  with  tears.  He  has  obeyed.  Oh !  my  sweet,  it  must 
have  been  dear  to  him !  Another  man  would  have  refused  to 
send  it  in  a  letter  full  of  flattery ;  but  the  Saracen  has  fulfilled 
his  promises.  He  has  obeyed.  It  moves  me  to  tears. 


XVII 

THE    SAME    TO    THE    SAME 

April  2nd. 

YESTERDAY  the  weather  was  splendid.  I  dressed  myself  like 
a  girl  who  wants  to  look  her  best  in  her  sweetheart's  eyes. 
My  father,  yielding  to  my  entreaties,  has  given  me  the  pret- 
tiest turnout  in  Paris — two  dapple-gray  horses  and  a  ba- 
rouche, which  is  a  masterpiece  of  elegance.  I  was  making  a 
first  trial  of  this,  and  peeped  out  like  a  flower  from  under  my 
sunshade  lined  with  white  silk. 

As  I  drove  up  the  avenue  of  the  Champs-Elysees,  I  saw 
my  Abencerrage  approaching  on  an  extraordinarily  beautiful 
horse.  Almost  every  man  nowadays  is  a  finished  jockey,  and 
they  all  stopped  to  admire  and  inspect  it.  He  bowed  to  me, 
and  on  receiving  a  friendly  sign  of  encouragement,  slackened 
his  horse's  pace  so  that  I  was  able  to  say  to  him : 

"You  are  not  vexed  with  me  for  asking  for  my  letter;  it 
was  no  use  to  you."  Then  in  a  lower  voice,  "You  have  al- 
ready transcended  the  ideal.  .  .  .  Your  horse  makes  you 
an  object  of  general  interest,"  I  went  on  aloud. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  215 

"My  steward  in  Sardinia  sent  it  to  me.  He  is  very  proud 
of  it ;  for  this  horse,  which  is  of  Arab  blood,  was  born  in  my 
stables/' 

This  morning,  my  dear,  Henarez  was  on  an  English  sorrel, 
also  very  fine,  but  not  such  as  to  attract  attention.  My  light, 
mocking  words  had  done  their  work.  He  bowed  to  me  and 
I  replied  with  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head. 

The  Due  d'Angouleme  has  bought  Macumer's  horse.  My 
slave  understood  that  he  was  deserting  the  role  of  simplicity 
by  attracting  the  notice  of  the  crowd.  A  man  ought  to  be 
remarked  for  what  he  is,  not  for  his  horse,  or  anything  else 
belonging  to  him.  To  have  too  beautiful  a  horse  seems  to 
me  a  piece  of  bad  taste,  just  as  much  as  wearing  a  huge  dia- 
mond pin.  I  was  delighted  at  being  able  to  find  fault  with 
him.  Perhaps  there  may  have  been  a  touch  of  vanity  in  what 
he  did,  very  excusable  in  a  poor  exile,  and  I  like  to  see  this 
childishness. 

Oh!  my  dear  old  preacher,  do  my  love  affairs  amuse  you 
as  much  as  your  dismal  philosophy  gives  me  the  creeps? 
Dear  Philip  the  Second  in  petticoats,  are  you  comfortable  in 
my  barouche?  Do  you  see  those  velvet  eyes,  humble,  yet  so 
eloquent,  and  glorying  in  their  servitude,  which  flash  on  me 
as  some  one  goes  by  ?  He  is  a  hero,  Kenee,  and  he  wears  my 
livery,  and  always  a  red  camellia  in  his  buttonhole,  while  I 
have  always  a  white  one  in  my  hand. 

How  clear  everything  becomes  in  the  light  of  love !  How 
well  I  know  my  Paris  now !  It  is  all  transfused  with  mean- 
ing. And  love  here  is  lovelier,  grander,  more  bewitching  than 
elsewhere. 

I  am  convinced  now  that  I  could  never  flirt  with  a  fool  or 
make  any  impression  on  him.  It  is  only  men  of  real  dis- 
tinction who  can  enter  into  our  feelings  and  feel  our  influence. 
Oh !  my  poor  friend,  forgive  me.  I  forgot  •  our  1'Estorade. 
But  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  going  to  make  a  genius  of 
him  ?  I  know  what  that  means.  You  will  dry  nurse  him  till 
some  day  he  is  able  to  understand  you. 

Good-bye.    I  am  a  little  off  my  head,  and  must  stop. 


21«  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

XVIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU 

April 

MY  angel — or  ought  I  not  rather  to  say  my  imp  of  evil? — • 
you  have,  without  meaning  it,  grieved  me  sorely.  I  would  say 
wounded  were  we  not  one  soul.  And  yet  it  is  possible  to 
wound  oneself. 

How  plain  it  is  that  you  have  never  realized  the  force  of 
the  word  indissoluble  as  applied  to  the  contract  binding  man 
and  woman !  I  have  no  wish  to  controvert  what  has  been 
laid  down  by  philosophers  or  legislators — they  are  quite 
capable  of  doing  this  for  themselves — but,  dear  one,  in  making 
marriage  irrevocable  and  imposing  on  it  a  relentless  formula, 
which  admits  of  no  exceptions,  they  have  rendered  each  union 
a  thing  as  distinct  as  one  individual  is  from  another.  Each 
has  its  own  inner  laws  which  differ  from  those  of  others. 
The  laws  regulating  married  life  in  the  country,  for  instance, 
where  husband  and  wife  are  never  out  of  each  other's  sight. 
cannot  be  the  same  as  those  regulating  a  household  in  town, 
where  frequent  distractions  give  variety  to  life.  Or  con- 
versely, married  life  in  Paris,  where  existence  is  one  perpetual 
whirl,  must  demand  different  treatment  from  the  more  peace- 
ful home  in  the  provinces. 

But  if  place  alters  the  conditions  of  marriage,  much  more 
does  character.  The  wife  of  a  man  born  to  be  a  leader  need 
only  resign  herself  to  his  guidance ;  whereas  the  wife  of  a  fool, 
conscious  of  superior  power,  is  bound  to  take  the  reins  in  her 
own  hand  if  she  would  avert  calamity. 

You  speak  of  vice;  and  it  is  possible  that,  after  all,  reason 
and  reflection  produce  a  result  not  dissimilar  from  what  we 
call  by  that  name.  For  what  does  a  woman  mean  by  it  but 
perversion  of  feeling  through  calculation  ?  Passion  is  vicious 
when  it  reasons,  admirable  only  when  it  springs  from  the 
heart  and  spends  itself  in  sublime  impulses  that  set  at  naught 
all  selfish  considerations.  Sooner  or  later,  dear  one,  you  too 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  217 

will  say,  "Yes !  dissimulation  is  the  necessary  armor  of  a  wo- 
man, if  by  dissimulation  be  meant  courage  to  bear  in  silence, 
prudence  to  foresee  the  future." 

Every  married  woman  learns  to  her  cost  the  existence  of 
certain  social  laws,  which,  in  many  respects,  conflict  with 
the  laws  of  nature.  Marrying  at  our  age,  it  would  be  possible 
to  have  a  dozen  children.  What  is  this  but  another  'name  for 
a  dozen  crimes,  a  dozen  misfortunes?  It  would  be  handing 
over  to  poverty  and  despair  twelve  innocent  darlings ;  whereas 
two  children  would  mean  the  happiness  of  both,  a  double 
blessing,  two  lives  capable  of  developing  in  harmony  with 
the  customs  and  laws  of  our  time.  The  natural  law  and  the 
code  are  in  hostility,  and  we  are  the  battle  ground.  Would 
you  give  the  name  of  vice  to  the  prudence  of  the  wife  who 
guards  her  family  from  destruction  through  its  own  acts? 
One  calculation  or  a  thousand,  what  matter,  if  the  decision 
no  longer  rests  with  the  heart  ? 

And  of  this  terrible  calculation  you  will  be  guilty  some  day, 
my  noble  Baronne  de  Macumer,  when  you  are  the  proud  and 
happy  wife  of  the  man  who  adores  you;  or  rather,  being  a 
man  of  sense,  he  will  spare  you  by  making  it  himself.  (You 
see,  dear  dreamer,  that  I  have  studied  the  code  in  its  bearings 
on  conjugal  relations.)  And  when  at  last  that  day  comes, 
you  will  understand  that  we  are  answerable  only  to  God  and 
to  ourselves  for  the  means  we  employ  to  keep  happiness 
alight  in  the  heart  of  our  homes.  Far  better  is  the  calculation 
which  succeeds  in  this  than  the  reckless  passion  which  intro- 
duces trouble,  heart-burnings,  and  dissension. 

I  have  reflected  painfully  on  the  duties  of  a  wife  and 
mother  of  a  family.  Yes,  sweet  one,  it  is  only  by  a  sublime 
hypocrisy  that  we  can  attain  the  noblest  ideal  of  a  perfect 
woman.  You  tax  me  with  insincerity  because  I  dole  out  to 
Louis,  from  day  to  day,  the  measure  of  his  intimacy  with 
me;  but  is  it  not  too  close  an  intimacy  which  provokes  rup- 
ture ?  My  aim  is  to  give  him,  in  the  very  interest  of  his  hap- 
piness, many  occupations,  which  will  all  serve  as  distractions 
to  his  love ;  and  this  is  not  the  reasoning  of  passion.  If  affec- 


218  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

tion  be  inexhaustible,  it  is  not  so  with  love :  the  task,  therefore, 
of  a  woman — truly  no  light  one — is  to  spread  it  out  thriftily 
over  a  lifetime. 

At  the  risk  of  exciting  your  disgust,  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  persist  in  the  principles  I  have  adopted,  and  hold  myself 
both  heroic  and  generous  in  so  doing.  Virtue,  my  pet,  is  an 
abstract  idea,  varying  in  its  manifestations  with  the  sur- 
roundings. Virtue  in  Provence,  in  Constantinople,  in  Lon- 
don, and  in  Paris  bears  very  different  fruit,  but  is  none  the  less 
virtue.  Each  human  life  is  a  substance  compacted  of  widely 
dissimilar  elements,  though,  viewed  from  a  certain  height,  the 
general  effect  is  the  same. 

If  I  wished  to  make  Louis  unhappy  and  to  bring  about  a 
separation,  all  I  need  do  is  to  leave  the  helm  in  his  hands. 
I  have  not  had  your  good  fortune  in  meeting  with  a  man  of 
the  highest  distinction,  but  I  may  perhaps  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  helping  him  on  the  road  to  it.  Five  years  hence  let  us 
meet  in  Paris  and  see !  I  believe  we  shall  succeed  in  mystify- 
ing you.  You  will  tell  me  then  that  I  was  quite  mistaken,  and 
that  M.  de  FEstorade  is  a  man  of  great  natural  gifts. 

As  for  this  brave  love,  of  which  I  know  only  what  you  tell 
me,  these  tremors  and  night  watches  by  starlight  on  the 
balcony,  this  idolatrous  worship,  this  deification  of  woman — 
I  knew  it  was  not  for  me.  You  can  enlarge  the  borders  of 
your  brilliant  life  as  you  please;  mine  is  hemmed  in  to  the 
boundaries  of  La  Crampade. 

And  you  reproach  me  for  the  jealous  care  which  alone 
can  nurse  this  modest  and  fragile  shoot  into  a  wealth  of  last- 
ing and  mysterious  happiness!  I  believed  myself  to  have 
found  out  how  to  adapt  the  charm  of  a  mistress  to  the  position 
of  a  wife,  and  you  have  almost  made  me  blush  for  my  device. 
Who  shall  say  which  of  us  is  right,  which  wrong?  Perhaps 
we  are  both  right  and  both  wrong.  Perhaps  this  is  the  heavy 
price  which  society  exacts  for  our  furbelows,  our  titles,  and 
our  children. 

I  too  have  my  red  camellias,  but  they  bloom  on  my  lips  in 
smiles  for  my  double  charge — the  father  and  the  son — whose 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  219 

slave  and  mistress  I  am.  But,  iny  dear,  your  last  letters  made 
me  feel  what  I  have  lost !  You  have  taught  me  all  a  woman 
sacrifices  in  marrying.  One  single  glance  did  I  take  at  those 
beautiful  wild  plateaus  where  you  range  at  your  sweet  will, 
and  I  will  not  tell  you  the  tears  that  fell  as  I  read.  But  re- 
gret is  not  remorse,  though  it  may  be  first  cousin  to  it. 

You  say,  "Marriage  has  made  you  a  philosopher!"  Alas! 
bitterly  did  I  feel  how  far  this  was  from  the  truth,  as  I  wept 
to  think  of  you  swept  away  on  love's  torrent.  But  my  father 
has  made  me  read  one  of  the  profoundest  thinkers  of  these 
parts,  the  man  on  whom  the  mantle  of  Bossuet  has  fallen,  one 
of  those  hard-headed  theorists  whose  words  force  conviction. 
While  you  were  reading  Corinne,  I  conned  Bonald ;  and  here 
is  the  whole  secret  of  my  philosophy.  He  revealed  to  me 
the  Family  in  its  strength  and  holiness.  According  to  Bonald, 
your  father  was  right  in  his  homily. 

Farewell,  my  dear  fancy,  my  friend,  my  wild  other  self. 


XIX 

LOUISE  DE   CHAULIEU   TO   MME.    DE   I/ESTORADE 

WELL,  my  Renee,  you  are  a  love  of  a  woman,  and  I  quite 
agree  now  that  we  can  only  be  virtuous  by  cheating.  Will 
that  satisfy  you  ?  Moreover,  the  man  who  loves  us  is  our  prop- 
erty; we  can  make  a  fool  or  a  genius  of  him  as  we  please; 
only,  between  ourselves,  the  former  happens  more  commonly. 
You  will  make  yours  a  genius,  and  you  won't  tell  the  secret — 
there  are  two  heroic  actions,  if  you  will ! 

Ah!  if  there  were  no  future  life,  how  nicely  you  would 
be  sold,  for  this  is  martyrdom  into  which  you  are  plunging 
of  your  own  accord.  You  want  to  make  him  ambitious  and 
to  keep  him  in  love !  Child  that  you  are,  surely  the  last  alone 
is  sufficient. 


220  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Tell  me,  to  what  point  is  calculation  a  virtue,  or  virtue 
calculation?  You  won't  say?  Well,  we  won't  quarrel  ovei 
that,  since  we  have  Bonald  to  refer  to.  We  are,  and  intend  to 
remain,  virtuous;  nevertheless  at  this  moment  I  believe  that 
you,  with  all  your  pretty  little  knavery,  are  a  better  woman 
than  I  am. 

Yes,  I  am  shockingly  deceitful.  I  love  Felipe,  and  I  conceal 
it  from  him  with  an  odious  hypocrisy.  I  long  to  see  him  leap 
from  his  tree  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  from  the  wall  to  my 
balcony — and  if  he  did,  how  I  should  wither  him  with  my 
scorn !  You  see,  I  am  frank  enough  with  you. 

What  restrains  me  ?  Where  is  the  mysterious  power  which 
prevents  me  from  telling  Felipe,  dear  fellow,  how  supremely 
happy  he  has  made  me  by  the  outpouring  of  his  love — so 
pure,  so  absolute,  so  boundless,  so  unobtrusive,  and  so  over- 
flowing ? 

Mme.  de  Mirbel  is  painting  my  portrait,  and  I  intend  to 
give  it  to  him,  my  dear.  What  surprises  me  more  and  more 
every  day  is  the  animation  which  love  puts  into  life.  How 
full  of  interest  is  every  hour,  every  action,  every  trifle!  and 
what  amazing  confusion  between  the  past,  the  future,  and 
the  present !  One  lives  in  three  tenses  at  once.  Is  it  still 
so  after  the  heights  of  happiness  are  reached  ?  Oh !  tell  me, 
I  implore  you,  what  is  happiness?  Does  it  soothe,  or  does  it 
excite?  I  am  horribly  restless;  I  seem  to  have  lost  all  my 
bearings;  a  force  in  my  heart  drags  me  to  him,  spite  of 
reason  and  spite  of  propriety.  There  is  this  gain,  that  I  am 
better  able  to  enter  into  your  feelings. 

Felipe's  happiness  consists  in  feeling  himself  mine;  the 
aloofness  of  his  love,  his  strict  obedience,  irritate  me,  just 
as  his  attitude  of  profound  respect  provoked  me  when  he 
was  only  my  Spanish  master.  I  am  tempted  to  cry  out  to 
him  as  he  passes,  "Fool,  if  you  love  me  so  much  as  a  picture, 
what  will  it  be  when  you  know  the  real  me  ?" 

Oh!  Eenee,  you  burn  my  letters,  don't  you?  I  will  burn 
yours.  If  other  eyes  than  ours  were  to  read  these  thoughts 
which  pass  from  heart  to  heart,  I  should  send  Felipe  to  put 


LETTEKS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  221 

them  out,  and  perhaps  to  kill  the  owners,  by  way  of  addi- 
tional security. 

Monday. 

Oh !  Kenee,  how  is  it  possible  to  fathom  the  heart  of  man  ? 
My  father  ought  to  introduce  me  to  M.  Bonald,  since  he  is 
so  learned;  I  would  ask  him.  I  envy  the  privilege  of  God, 
who  can  read  the  undercurrents  of  the  heart. 

Does  he  still  worship?     That  is  the  whole  question. 

If  ever,  in  gesture,  glance,  or  tone,  I  were  to  detect  the 
slightest  falling  off  in  the  respect  he  used  to  show  me  in  the 
days  when  he  was  my  instructor  in  Spanish,  I  feel  that  I 
should  have  strength  to  put  the  whole  thing  from  me.  "Why 
these  fine  words,  these  grand  resolutions?"  you  will  say. 
Dear,  I  will  tell  you. 

My  fascinating  father,  who  treats  me  with  the  devotion 
of  an  Italian  cavaliere  servente  for  his  lady,  had  my  portrait 
painted,  as  I  told  you,  by  Mme.  de  Mirbel.  I  contrived  to 
get  a  copy  made,  good  enough  to  do  for  the  Duke,  and  sent 
the  original  to  Felipe.  I  despatched  it  yesterday,  and  these 
lines  with  it: 

"Don  Felipe,  your  single-heartel  devotion  is  met  by  a  blind 
confidence.  Time  will  show  whether  this  is  not  to  treat  a 

man  as  more  than  human." 

.  * 

It  was  a  big  reward.  It  looked  like  a  promise  and — dread- 
ful to  say — a  challenge;  but — which  will  seem  to  you  still 
more  dreadful — I  quite  intended  that  it  should  suggest  both 
these  things,  without  going  so  far  as  actually  to  commit  me. 
If  in  his  reply  there  is  "Dear  Louise !"  or  even  "Louise,"  he 
is  done  for ! 

Tuesday. 

No,  he  is  not  done  for.  The  constitutional  minister  is  per- 
fect as  a  lover.  Here  is  his  letter : — 

"Evecry  moment  passed  away  from  your  sight  has  been 
filled  by  me  with  ideal  pictures  of  you,  my  eyes  closed  to 


222  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

the  outside  world  and  fixed  in  meditation  on  your  image, 
which  used  to  obey  the  summons  too  slowly  in  that  dim  palace 
of  dreams,  glorified  by  your  presence.  Henceforth  my  gaze 
will  rest  upon  this  wondrous  ivory — this  talisman,  might  I 
not  say? — since  your  blue  eyes  sparkle  with  life  as  I  look, 
and  paint  passes  into  flesh  and  blood.  If  I  have  delayed 
writing,  it  is  because  I  could  not  tear  myself  away  from  your 
presence,  which  wrung  from  me  all  that  I  was  bound  to 
keep  most  secret. 

"Yes,  closeted  with  you  all  last  night  and  to-day,  I  have, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  given  myself  up  to  full,  com- 
plete, and  boundless  happiness.  Could  you  but  see  yourself 
where  I  have  placed  you,  between  the  Virgin  and  God,  you 
might  have  some  idea  of  the  agony  in  which  the  night  has 
passed.  But  I  would  not  offend  you  by  speaking  of  it;  for 
one  glance  from  your  eyes,  robbed  of  the  tender  sweetness 
which  is  my  life,  would  be  full  of  torture  for  me,  and  I  im- 
plore your  clemency  therefore  in  advance.  Queen  of  my  life 
and  of  my  soul,  oh!  that  you  could  grant  me  but  one-thou- 
sandth part  of  the  love  I  bear  you! 

"This  was  the  burden  of  my  prayer;  doubt  worked  havoc 
in  my  soul  as  I  oscillated  between  belief  and  despair,  be- 
tween life  and  death,  darkness  and  light.  A  criminal  whose 
verdict  hangs  in  the  balance  is  not  more  racked  with  sus- 
pense than  I,  as  I  own  to  my  temerity.  The  smile 
imaged  on  your  lips,  to  which  my  eyes  turned  ever  and  again, 
was  alone  able  to  calm  the  storm  roused  by  the  dread  of  dis- 
pleasing you.  From  my  birth  no  one,  not  even  my  mother, 
has  smiled  on  me.  The  beautiful  young  girl  who  was  designed 
for  me  rejected  my  heart  and  gave  hers  to  my  brother.  Again, 
in  politics  all  my  efforts  have  been  defeated.  In  the  eyes  of 
my  king  I  have  read  only  thirst' for  vengeance;  from  child- 
hood he  has  been  my  enemy,  and  the  vote  of  the  Cortes  which 
placed  me  in  power  was  regarded  by  him  as  a  personal  in- 
sult. 

"Xiess  than  this  might  breed  despondency  in  the  stoutest 
heart.  Besides,  -I  have  no  illusion;  I  know  the  gracelessness 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  223 

of  my  person,  and  am  well  aware  how  difficult  it  is  to  do 
justice  to  the  heart  within  so  rugged  a  shell.  To  be  loved  had 
ceased  to  be  more  than  a  dream  to  me  when  I  met  you.  Thus 
when  I  bound  myself  to  your  service  I  knew  that  devotion 
alone  could  excuse  my  passion. 

"But,  as  I  look  upon  this  portrait  and  listen  to  your 
smile  that  whispers  of  rapture,  the  rays  of  a  hope  which  I 
had  sternly  banished  pierced  the  gloom,  like  the  light  of 
dawn,  again  to  be  obscured  by  rising  mists  of  doubt  and  fear 
of  your  displeasure,  if  the  morning  should  break  to  day.  No, 
it  is  impossible  you  should  love  me  yet — I  feel  it;  but  in 
time,  as  you  make  proof  of  the  strength,  the  constancy,  and 
depth  of  my  affection,  you  may  yield  me  some  foothold  in 
your  heart.  If  my  daring  offends  you,  tell  me  so  without 
anger,  and  I  will  return  to  my  former  part.  But  if  you  con- 
sent to  try  and  love  me,  be  merciful  and  break  it  gently  to 
one  who  has  placed  the  happiness  of  his  life  in  the  single 
thought  of  serving  you/' 

My  dear,  as  I  read  these  last  words,  he  seemed  to  rise 
before  me,  pale  as  the  night  when  the  camellias  told  their 
story  and  he  knew  his  offering  was  accepted.  These  words, 
in  their  humility,  were  clearly  something  quite  different  from 
the  usual  flowery  rhetoric  of  lovers,  and  a  wave  of  feeling 
broke  over  me;  it  was  the  breath  of  happiness. 

The  weather  has  been  atrocious;  impossible  to  go  to  the 
Bois  without  exciting  all  sorts  of  suspicions.  Even  my 
mother,  who  often  goes  out,  regardless  of  rain,  remains  at 
home,  and  alone. 

Wednesday  evening. 

I  have  just  seen  him  at  the  Opera,  my  dear ;  he  is  another 
man.  He  came  to  our  box,  introduced  by  the  Sardinian 
ambassador. 

Having  read  in  my  eyes  that  this  audacity  was  taken  in 
good  part,  he  seemed  awkwardly  conscious  of  his  limbs,  and 
addressed  the  Marquise  d'Espard  as  "mademoiselle."  A  light 
far  brighter  than  the  glare  of  the  chandeliers  flashed  from 


224  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

his  eyes.  At  last  he  went  out  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
didn't  know  what  he  might  do  next. 

"The  Baron  de  Macumer  is  in  love!"  exclaimed  Mme.  de 
Maufrigneuse. 

"Strange,  isn't  it,  for  a  fallen  minister?"  replied  my 
mother. 

I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  myself  to  regard  with 
curiosity  Mmes.  de  Maufrigneuse  and  d'Espard  and  my 
mother,  as  though  they  were  talking  a  foreign  language  and 
I  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  all  about,  but  inwardly  my 
soul  sank  in  the  waves  of  an  intoxicating  joy.  There  is  only 
one  word  to  express  what  I  felt,  and  that  is :  rapture.  Such 
love  as  Felipe's  surely  makes  him  worthy  of  mine.  I  am 
the  very  breath  of  his  life,  my  hands  hold  the  thread  that 
guides  his  thoughts.  To  be  quite  frank,  I  have  a  mad  long- 
ing to  see  him  clear  every  obstacle  and  stand  before  me,  ask- 
ing boldly  for  my  hand.  Then  I  should  know  whether  this 
storm  of  love  would  sink  to  placid  calm  at  a  glance  from  me. 

Ah!  my  dear,  I  stopped  here,  and  I  am  still  all  in  a 
tremble.  As  I  wrote,  I  heard  a  slight  noise  outside,  and  rose 
to  see  what  it  was.  From  my  window  I  could  see  him  com- 
ing along  the  ridge  of  the  wall  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  I  went 
to  the  bedroom  window  and  made  him  a  sign,  it  was  enough ; 
he  leaped  from  the  wall — ten  feet — and  then  ran  along  the 
road,  as  far  as  I  could  see  him,  in  order  to  show  me  that  he 
was  not  hurt.  That  he  should  think  of  my  fear  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  must  have  been  stunned  by  his  fall,  moved  me 
so  much  that  I  am  still  crying ;  I  don't  know  why.  Poor  un- 
gainly man!  what  was  he  coming  for?  what  had  he  to  say 
to  me? 

I  dare  not  write  my  thoughts,  and  shall  go  to  bed  joyful, 
thinking  of  all  that  we  would  say  if  we  were  together.  Fare- 
well, fair  silent  one.  I  have  not  time  to  scold  you  for  not  writ- 
ing, but  it  is  more  than  a  month  since  I  have  heard  from 
you !  Does  this  mean  that  you  are  at  last  happy?  Have  you 
lost  the  "complete  independence"  which  you  were  so  proud 
of,  and  which  to-night  has  so  nearly  played  me  false  ? 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  225 

XX 

BEN^E  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  CHATJLIETT 

May. 

IF  love  be  the  life  of  the  world,  why  do  austere  philosophers 
count  it  for  nothing  in  marriage  ?  Why  should  Society  take 
for  its  first  law  that  the  woman  must  be  sacrificed  to  the 
family,  introducing  thus  a  note  of  discord  into  the  very  heart 
of  marriage?  And  this  discord  was  foreseen,  since  it  was  to 
meet  the  dangers  arising  from  it  that  men  were  armed  with 
new-found  powers  against  us.  But  for  these,  we  should  have 
been  able  to  bring  their  whole  theory  to  nothing,  whether  by 
the  force  of  love  or  of  a  secret,  persistent  aversion. 

1  see  in  marriage,  as  it  at  present  exists,  two  opposing 
forces  which  it  was  the  task  of  the  lawgiver  to  reconcile. 
"When  will  they  be  reconciled?"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  read 
your  letter.  Oh!  my  dear,  one  such  letter  alone  is  enough 
to  overthrow  the  whole  fabric  constructed  by  the  sage  of 
Aveyron,  under  whose  shelter  I  had  so  cheerfully  ensconced 
myself !  The  laws  were  made  by  old  men — any  woman  can 
see  that — and  they  have  been  prudent  enough  to  decree  that 
conjugal  love,  apart  from  passion,  is  not  degrading,  and  that 
a  woman  in  yielding  herself  may  dispense  with  the  sanction 
of  love,  provided  the  man  can  legally  call  her  his.  In  their 
exclusive  concern  for  the  family  they  have  imitated  Nature, 
whose  one  care  is  to  propagate  the  species. 

Formerly  I  was  a  person,  now  I  am  a  chattel.  Not  a  few 
tears  have  I  gulped  down,  alone  and  far  from  every  one.  How 
gladly  would  I  have  exchanged  them  for  a  consoling  smilo! 
Why  are  our  destinies  so  unequal?  Your  soul  expands  in 
the  atmosphere  of  a  lawful  passion.  For  you,  virtue  will 
coincide  with  pleasure.  If  you  encounter  pain,  it  will  be 
of  your  own  free  choice.  Your  duty,  if  you  marry  Felipe, 
will  be  one  with  the  sweetest,  freest  indulgence  of  feeling 


226  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Our  future  is  big  with  the  answer  to  my  question,  and  I  look 
for  it  with  restless  eagerness. 

You  love  and  are  adored.  Oh!  my  dear,  let  this  noble 
romance,  the  old  subject  of  our  dreams,  take  full  possession 
of  your  soul.  Womanly  beauty,  refined  and  spiritualized  in 
you,  was  created  by  God,  for  His  own  purposes,  to  charm 
and  to  delight.  Yes,  my  sweet,  guard  well  the  secret  of  your 
heart,  and  submit  Felipe  to  those  ingenious  devices  of  ours 
for  testing  a  lover's  metal.  Above  all,  make  trial  of  your 
own  love,  for  this  is  even  more  important.  It  is  so  easy  to 
be  misled  by  the  deceptive  glamour  of  novelty  and  passion, 
and  by  the  vision  of  happiness. 

Alone  of  the  two  friends,  you  remain  in  your  maiden  in- 
dependence; and  I  beseech  you,  dearest,  do  not  risk  the  ir- 
revocable step  of  marriage  without  some  guarantee.  It  hap- 
pens sometimes,  when  two  are  talking  together,  apart  from 
the  world,  their  souls  stripped  of  social  disguise,  that  a 
gesture,  a  word,  a  look  lights  up,  as  by  a  flash,  some  dark 
abyss.  You  have  courage  and  strength  to  tread  boldly  in 
paths  where  others  would  be  lost. 

You  have  no  conception  in  what  anxiety  I  watch  you. 
Across  all  this  space  I  see  you;  my  heart  beats  with  yours. 
Be  sure,  therefore,  to  write  and  tell  me  everything.  Your 
letters  create  an  inner  life  of  passion  within  my  homely, 
peaceful  household,  which  reminds  me  of  a  level  highroad 
on  a  gray  day.  The  only  event  here,  my  sweet,  is  that  I  am 
playing  cross-purposes  with  myself.  But  I  don't  .want  to  tell 
you  about  it  just  now;  it  must  wait  for  another  day.  With 
dogged  obstinacy,  I  pass  from  despair  to  hope,  now  yielding, 
now  holding  back.  It  may  be  that  I  ask  from  life  more  than 
we  have  a  right  to  claim.  In  youth  we  are  so  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  the  ideal  and  the  real  will  harmonize ! 

I  have  been  pondering  alone,  seated  beneath  a  rock  in  my 
park,  and  the  fruit  of  my  pondering  is  that  love  in  marriage 
is  a  happy  accident  on  which  it  is  impossible  to  base  a  uni- 
versal law.  My  Aveyron  philosopher  is  right  in  looking  on 
ihe  family  as  the  only  possible  unit  in  society,  and  in  placing 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  227 

woman  in  subjection  to  the  family,  as  she  has  been  in  all 
ages.  The  solution  of  this  great — for  us  almost  awful — ques- 
tion lies  in  our  first  child.  For  this  reason,  I  would  gladly 
be  a  mother,  were  it  only  to  supply  food  for  the  consuming 
energy  of  my  soul. 

Louis'  temper  remains  as  perfect  as  ever;  his  love  is  of  the 
active,  my  tenderness  of  the  passive,  type.  He  is  happy, 
plucking  the  flowers  which  bloom  for  him,  without  troubling 
aj)out  the  labor  of  the  earth  which  has  produced  them. 
Blessed  self-absorption !  At  whatever  cost  to  myself,  I  fall 
in  with  his  illusions,  as  a  mother,  in  my  idea  of  her,  should 
be  ready  to  spend  herself  to  satisfy  a  fancy  of  her  child. 
The  intensity  of  his  joy  blinds  him,  and  even  throws  its  re- 
flection upon  me.  The  smile  or  look  of  satisfaction  which 
the  knowledge  of  his  content  brings  to  my  face  is  enough 
to  satisfy  him.  And  so,  "my  child"  is  the  pet  name  which  I 
give  him  when  we  are  alone. 

And  I  wait  for  the  fruit  of  all  these  sacrifices  which  re- 
main a  secret  between  God,  myself,  and  you.  On  mother- 
hood I  have  staked  enormously ;  my  credit  account  is  now  too 
large,  I  fear  I  shall  never  receive  full  payment.  To  it  I  look 
for  employment  of  my  energy,  expansion  of  my  heart,  and 
the  compensation  of  a  world  of  joys.  Pray  Heaven  I  be  not 
deceived!  It  is  a  question  of  all  my  future  and,  horrible 
thought,  of  my  virtue. 


XXI 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  RESTEE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

June. 

DEAR  WEDDED  SWEETHEART, — Your  letter  has  arrived  at  the 
very  moment  to  hearten  me  for  a  bold  step  which  I  have 
been  meditating  night  and  day.  I  feel  within  me  a  strange 
craving  for  the  unknown,  or,  if  you  will,  the  forbidden, 
which  makes  me  uneasy  and  reveals  a  conflict  in  progress  in 
my  soul  between  the  laws  of  society  and  of  nature.  I  can- 


228  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

not  tell  whether  nature  in  me  is  the  stronger  of  the  two,  but 
I  surprise  myself  in  the  act  of  mediating  between  the  hostile 
powers. 

In  plain  words,  what  I  wanted  was  to  speak  with  Felipe, 
alone,  at  night,  under  the  lime-trees  at  the  bottom  of  our 
garden.  There  is  no  denying  that  this  desire  beseems  the 
girl  who  has  earned  the  epithet  of  an  "up-to-date  young 
lady,"  bestowed  on  me  by  the  Duchess  in  jest,  and  which  my 
father  has  approved. 

Yet  to  me  there  seems  a  method  in  this  madness.  I  should 
recompense  Felipe  for  the  long  nights  he  has  passed  under 
my  window,  at  the  same  time  that  I  should  test  him,  by 
seeing  what  he  thinks  of  my  escapade  and  how  he  comports 
himself  at  a  critical  moment.  Let  him  cast  a  halo  round 
my  folly — behold  in  him  my  husband ;  let  him  show  one  iota 
less  of  the  tremulous  respect  with  which  he  bows  to  me  in 
the  Champs-Elysees — farewell,  Don  Felipe. 

As  for  society,  I  run  less  risk  in  meeting  my  lover  thus 
than  when  I  smile  to  him  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Mme. 
de  Maufrigneuse  and  the  old  Marquise  de  Beauseant,  where 
spies  now  surround  us  on  every  side ;  and  Heaven  only  knows 
how  people  stare  at  the  girl,  suspected  of  a  weakness  for  a 
grotesque,  like  Macumer. 

I  cannot  tell  you  to  what  a  state  of  agitation  I  am  re- 
duced by  dreaming  of  this  idea,  and  the  time  I  have  given  to 
planning  its  execution.  I  wanted  you  badly.  What  happy 
hours  we  should  have  chattered  away,  lost  in  the  mazes  of 
uncertainty,  enjoying  in  anticipation  all  the  delights  and 
horrors  of  a  first  meeting  in  the  silence  of  night,  under  the 
noble  lime-trees  of  the  Chaulieu  mansion,  with  the  moon- 
light dancing  through  the  leaves !  As  I  sat  alone,  every 
nerve  tingling,  I  cried,  "Oh  !  Renee,  where  are  you  ?"  Then 
your  letter  came,  like  a  match  to  gunpowder,  and  my  last 
scruples  went  by  the  board. 

Through  the  window  I  tossed  to  my  bewildered  adorer  an 
exact  tracing  of  the  key  of  the  little  gate  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  together  with  this  note: 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  229 

"Your  madness  must  really  be  put  a  stop  to.  If  you  broke 
your  neck,  you  would  ruin  the  reputation  of  the  woman  you 
profess  to  love.  Are  you  worthy  of  a  new  proof  of  regard, 
and  do  you  deserve  that  I  should  talk  with  you  under  the 
limes  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  at  the  hour  when,  the  moon 
throws  them  into  shadow?" 

Yesterday  at  one  o'clock,  when  Griffith  was  going  to  bed, 
I  said  to  her: 

"Take  your  shawl,  dear,  and  come  out  with  me.  I  want 
to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden  without  any  one  knowing." 

Without  a  word,  she  followed  me.  Oh!  my  Renee,  what 
an  awful  moment  when,  after  a  little  pause  full  of  delicious 
thrills  of  agony,  I  saw  him  gliding  along  like  a  shadow. 
When  he  had  reached  the  garden  safely,  I  said  to  Griffith : 

"Don't  be  astonished,  but  the  Baron  de  Macumer  is  here, 
and,  indeed,  it  is  on  that  account  I  brought  you  with  me." 

No  reply  from  Griffith. 

"What  would  you  have  with  me?"  said  Felipe,  in  a  tone 
of  such  agitation  that  it  was  easy  to  see  he  was  driven  be- 
side himself  by  the  noise,  slight  as  it  wais,  of  our  dresses 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  and  of  our  steps  upon  the  gravel. 

"I  want  to  say  to  you  what  I  could  not  write,"  I  re- 
plied. 

Griffith  withdrew  a  few  steps.  It  was  one  of  those  mild 
nights,  when  the  air  is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  My 
head  swam  with  the  intoxicating  delight  of  finding  myself 
all  but  alone  with  him  in  the  friendly  shade  of  the  lime-trees, 
beyond  which  lay  the  garden,  shining  all  the  more  brightly 
because  the  white  fagade  of  the  house  reflected  the  moon- 
light. The  contrast  seemed,  as  it  were,  an  emblem  of  our 
clandestine  love  leading  up  to  the  glaring  publicity  of  a 
wedding.  Neither  of  us  could  do  more  at  first  than  drink 
in  silently  the  ecstasy  of  a  moment,  as  new  and  marvelous 
for  him  as  for  me.  At  last  I  found  tongue  to  say,  pointing 
to  the  elm-tree : 

"Although  I  am  not  afraid  of  scandal,  you  shall  not  climb 


230  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

that  tree  again.  We  have  long  enough  played  schoolboy  and 
schoolgirl,  let  us  rise  now  to  the  height  of  our  destiny.  Had 
the  fall  killed  you,  I  should  have  died  disgraced  .  .  ." 

I  looked  at  him.    Every  scrap  of  color  had  left  his  face. 

"And  if  you  had  been  found  there,  suspicion  would  have 
attached  either  to  my  mother  or  to  me  .  .  " 

"Forgive  me/'  he  murmured. 

"If  you  walk  along  the  boulevard,  I  shall  hear  your  step; 
and  when  I  want  to  see  you,  I  will  open  my  window.  But  I 
would  not  run  such  a  risk  unless  some  emergency  arose.  Why 
have  you  forced  me  by  your  rash  act  to  commit  another,  and 
one  which  may  lower  me  in  your  eyes?" 

The  tears  which  I  saw  in  his  eyes  were  to  me  the  most 
eloquent  of  answers. 

"What  I  have  done  to-night,"  I  went  on  with  a  smile, 
"must  seem  to  you  the  height  of  madness  .  .  ." 

After  we  had  walked  up  and  down  in  silence  more  than 
once,  he  recovered  composure  enough  to  say: 

"You  must  think  me  a  fool;  and,  indeed,  the  delirium  of 
my  joy  has  robbed  me  of  both  nerve  and  wits.  But  of  this 
at  least  be  assured,  whatever  you  do  is  sacred  in  my  eyes 
from  the  very  fact  that  it  seemed  right  to*  you.  I  honor  you 
as  I  honor  only  God  besides.  And  then,  Miss  Griffith  is 
here." 

"She  is  here  for  the  sake  of  others,  not  for  us,"  I  put  in 
hastily. 

My  dear,  he  understood  me  at  once. 

"I  know  very  well,"  he  said,  with  the  humblest  glance  at 
me,  "that  whether  she  is  there  or  not  makes  no  difference. 
Unseen  of  men,  we  are  still  in  the  presence  of  God,  and 
our  own  esteem  is  not  less  important  to  us  than  that  of  the 
world." 

"Thank  you,  Felipe,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand  to  him 
with  a  gesture  which  you  ought  to  see.  "A  woman,  and  I 
am  nothing  if  not  a  woman,  is  on  the  road  to  loving  the 
man  who  understands  her.  Oh  !  only  on  the  road,"  I  went  on, 
with  a  finger  on  my  lips.  "Don't  let  your  hopes  carry  you 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  231 

beyond  what  I  say.  My  heart  will  belong  only  to  the  man 
who  can  read  it  and  know  its  every  turn.  Our  views,  with- 
out being  absolutely  identical,  must  be  the  same  in  their 
breadth  and  elevation.  I  have  no  wish  to  exaggerate  my 
own  merits;  doubtless  what  seem  virtues  in  my  eyes  have 
their  corresponding  defects.  -  All  I  can  say  is,  I  should  be 
heartbroken  without  them." 

"Having  first  accepted  me  as  your  servant,  you  now  per- 
mit me  to  love  you,"  he  said,  trembling  and  looking  in  my 
face  at  each  word.  "My  first  prayer  has  been  more  than  an- 
swered." 

"But,"  I  hastened  to  reply,  "your  position  seems  to  me  a 
better  one  than  mine.  I  should  not  object  to  change  places, 
and  this  change  it  lies  with  you  to  bring  about." 

"In  my  turn,  I  thank  you,"  he  replied.  "I  know  the  duties 
of  a  faithful  lover.  It  is  mine  to  prove  that  I  am  worthy 
of  you;  the  trials  shall  be  as  long  as  you  choose  to  make 
them.  If  I  belie  your  hopes,  you  have  only — God!  that  I 
should  say  it — to  reject  me." 

"I  know  that  you  love  me,"  I  replied.  "So  far"  with  a 
cruel  emphasis  on  the  words,  "you  stand  first  in  my  regard. 
Otherwise  you  would  not  be  here." 

Then  we  began  again  to  walk  up  and  down  as  we  talked, 
and  I  must  say  that  so  soon  as  my  Spaniard  had  recovered 
himself  he  put  forth  the  genuine  eloquence  of  the  heart. 
It  was  not  passion  it  breathed,  but  a  marvelous  tenderness  of 
feeling,  which  he  beautifully  compared  to  the  divine  love. 
His  thrilling  voice,  which  lent  an  added  charm  to  thoughts, 
in  themselves  so  exquisite,  reminded  me  of  the  nightingale's 
note.  He  spoke  low,  using  only  the  middle  tones  of  a  fine 
instrument,  and  words  flowed  upon  words  with  the  rush  of  a 
torrent.  It  was  the  overflow  of  the  heart. 

"No  more,"  I  said,  "or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  tear  myself 
away." 

And  with  a  gesture  I  dismissed  him. 

"You  have  committed  yourself  now,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Griffith. 


232  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"In  England  that  might  be  so,  but  not  in  France,"  I  re- 
plied with  nonchalance.  "I  intend  to  make  a  love  match,  and 
am  feeling  my  way — that  is  all." 

You  see,  dear,  as  love  did  not  come  to  me,  I  had  to  do  as 
Mahomet  did  with  the  mountain. 

Friday. 

Once  more  I  have  seen  my  slave.  He  has  become  very 
timid,  and  puts  on  an  air  of  pious  devotion,  which  I  like,  for 
it  seems  to  say  that  he  feels  my  power  and  fascination  in 
every  fibre.  But  nothing  in  his  look  or  manner  can  rouse  in 
these  society  sibyls  any  suspicion  of  the  boundless  love  which 
I  see.  Don't  suppose  though,  dear,  that  I  am  carried  away, 
mastered,  tamed;  on  the  contrary,  the  taming,  mastering, 
and  carrying  away  are  on  my  side  .  .  . 

In  short,  I  am  quite  capable  of  reason.  Oh!  to  feel  again 
the  terror  of  that  fascination  in  which  I  was  held  by  the 
schoolmaster,  the  plebeian,  the  man  I  kept  at  a  distance ! 

The  fact  is  that  love  is  of  two  kinds — one  which  commands, 
and  one  which  obeys.  The  two  are  quite  distinct,  and  the 
passion  to  which  the  one  gives  rise  is  not  the  passion  of  the 
other.  To  get  her  full  of  life,  perhaps  a  woman  ought  to 
have  experience  of  both.  Can  the  two  passions  ever  co-exist  ? 
Can  the  man  in  whom  we  inspire  love  inspire  it  in  us  ?  Will 
the  day  ever  come  when  Felipe  is  my  master?  Shall  I 
tremble  then,  as  he  does  now?  These  are  questions  which 
make  me  shudder. 

He  is  very  blind !  In  his  place  I  should  have  thought  Mile. 
de  Chaulieu,  meeting  me  under  the  limes,  a  cold,  calculating 
coquette,  with  starched  manners.  No,  that  is  not  love,  it  is 
playing  with  fire.  I  am  still  fond  of  Felipe,  but  I  am  calm 
and  at  my  ease  with  him  now.  No  more  obstacles!  What 
a  terrible  thought !  It  is  all  ebb-tide  within,  and  I  fear  to 
question  my  heart.  His  mistake  was  in  concealing  the  ardor 
of  his  love ;  he  ought  to  have  forced  my  self-control. 

In  a  word,  I  was  naughty,  and  I  have  not  got  the  reward 
such  naughtiness  brings.  No,  dear,  however  sweet  the  mem- 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  233 

ory  of  that  half -hour  beneath  the  trees,  it  is  nothing  like 
the  excitement  of  the  old  time  with  its:  "Shall  I  go?  Shall 
I  not  go  ?  Shall  I  write  to  him  ?  Shall  I  not  write  ?" 

Is  it  thus  with  all  our  pleasures  ?  Is  suspense  always  bet- 
ter  than  enjoyment?  Hope  than  fruition?  Is  it  the  rich 
who  in  very  truth  are  the  poor?  Have  we  not  both  perhaps 
exaggerated  feeling  by  giving  to  imagination  too  free  a 
rein  ?  There  are  times  when  this  thought  freezes  me.  Shall 
I  tell  you  why?  Because  I  am  meditating  another  visit  to 
the  bottom  of  the  garden — without  Griffith.  How  far  could 
I  go  in  this  direction?  Imagination  knows  no  limit,  but  it 
is  not  so  with  pleasure.  Tell  me,  dear  be-furbelowed  pro- 
fessor, how  can  one  reconcile  the  two  goals  of  a  woman's  ex- 
istence? 


XXII 

LOUISE  TO  FELIPE 

I  AM  not  pleased  with  you.  If  you  did  not  cry  over  Eacine's 
Berenice,  and  feel  it  to  be  the  most  terrible  of  tragedies, 
there  is  no  kinship  in  our. souls;  we  shall  never  get  on  to- 
gether, and  had  better  break  off  at  once.  Let  us  meet  no 
more.  Forget  me;  for  if  I  do  not  have  a  satisfactory  reply, 
I  shall  forget  you.  You  will  become  M.  le  Baron  de  Macumer 
for  me,  or  rather  you  will  cease  to  be  at  all. 

Yesterday  at  Mme.  d'Espard's  you  had  a  self-satisfied  air 
which  disgusted  me.  No  doubt,  apparently,  about  your  con- 
quest !  In  sober  earnest,  your  self-possession  alarms  me.  Not 
a  trace  in  you  of  the  humble  slave  of  your  first  letter.  Far 
from  betraying  the  absent-mindedness  of  a  lover,  you  pol- 
ished epigrams !  This  is  not  the  attitude  of  a  true  believer, 
always  prostrate  before  his  divinity. 

If  you  do  not  feel  me  to  be  the  very  breath  of  your  life, 
a  being  nobler  than  other  women,  and  to  be  judged  by  other 
standards,  then  I  must  be  less  than  a  woman  in  your  sight. 


234  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

You  have  roused  in  me  a  spirit  of  mistrust,  Felipe,  and  its 
angry  mutterings  have  drowned  the  accents  of  tenderness. 
When  I  look  back  upon  what  has  passed  between  us,  I  feel 
in  truth  that  I  have  a  right  to  be  suspicious.  For  know, 
Prime  Minister  of  all  the  Spains,  that  I  have  reflected  much 
on  the  defenceless  condition  of  our  sex.  My  innocence  has 
held  a  torch,  and  my  fingers  are  not  burnt.  Let  me  repeat  to 
you,  then,  what  my  youthful  experience  taught  me. 

In  all  other  matters,  duplicity,  faithlessness,  and  broken 
pledges  are  brought  to  book  and  punished;  but  not  so  with 
love,  which  is  at  once  the  victim,  the  accuser,  the  counsel, 
judge,  and  executioner.  The  cruelest  treachery,  the  most 
heartless  crimes,  are  those  which  remain  for  ever  concealed, 
with  two  hearts  alone  for  witness.  How  indeed  should  the 
victim  proclaim  them  without  injury  to  herself  ?  Love,  there- 
fore, has  its  own  code,  its  own  penal  system,  with  which  the 
world  has  no  concern. 

Now,  for  my  part,  I  have  resolved  never  to  pardon  a 
serious  misdemeanor,  and  in  love,  pray,  what  is  not  serious  ? 
Yesterday  you  had  all  the  air  of  a  man  successful  in  his  suit. 
You  would  be  wrong  to  doubt  it;  and  yet,  if  this  assurance 
robbed  you  of  the  charming  simplicity  which  sprang  from 
uncertainty,  I  should  blame  you  severely.  I  would  have  you 
neither  bashful  nor  self-complacent;  I  would  not  have  you 
in  terror  of  losing  my  affection — that  would  be  an  insult — but 
neither  would  I  have  you  wear  your  love  lightly  as  a  thing 
of  course.  Never  should  your  heart  be  freer  than  mine.  If 
you  know  nothing  of  the  torture  that  a  single  stab  of  doubt 
brings  to  the  soul,  tremble  lest  I  give  you  a  lesson ! 

In  a  single  glance  I  confided  my  heart  to  you,  and  you 
read  the  meaning.  The  purest  feelings  that  ever  took  root 
in  a  young  girl's  breast  are  yours.  The  thought  and  medita- 
tion of  which  I  have  told  you  served  indeed  only  to  enrich 
the  mind;  but  if  ever  the  wounded  heart  turns  to  the  brain 
for  counsel,  be  sure  the  young  girl  would  show  some  kinship 
with  the  demon  of  knowledge  and  of  daring. 

I  swear  to  you,  Felipe,  if  you  love  me,  as  I  believe  you  do, 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  235 

and  if  I  have  reason  to  suspect  the  least  falling  off  in  the 
fear,,  obedience,  and  respect  which  you  have  hitherto  pro- 
fessed, if  the  pure  flame  of  passion  which  first  kindled  the 
fire  of  my  heart  should  seem  to  me  any  day  to  burn  less 
vividly,  you  need  fear  no  reproaches.  I  would  not  weary  you 
with  letters  bearing  any  trace  of  weakness,  pride,  or  anger,  nor 
even  with  one  of  warning  like  this.  But  if  I  spoke  no  words, 
Felipe,  my  face  would  tell  you  that  death  was  near.  And 
yet  I  should  not  die  till  I  had  branded  you  with  infamy,  and 
sown  eternal  sorrow  in  your  heart;  you  would  see  the  girl 
you  loved  dishonored  and  lost  in  this  world,  and  know  her 
doomed  to  everlasting  suffering  in  the  next. 

Do  not  therefore,  I  implore  you,  give  me  cause  to  envy  the 
old,  happy  Louise,  the  object  of  your  pure  worship,  whose 
heart  expanded  in  the  sunshine  of  happiness,  since,  in  the 
words  of  Dante,  she  possessed, 

Senza  brama.  sicura  ricchezza! 

I  have  searched  the  Inferno  through  to  find  the  most  ter- 
rible punishment,  some  torture  of  the  mind  to  which  I  might 
link  the  vengeance  of  God. 

Yesterday,  as  I  watched  you,  doubt  went  through  me  like 
a  sharp,  cold  dagger's  point.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
I  mistrusted  you,  and  the  pang  was  so  terrible,  I  could  not 
endure  it  longer.  If  my  service  be  too  hard,  leave  it,  I  would 
not  keep  you.  Do  I  need  any  proof  of  your  cleverness  ?  Keep 
for  me  the  flowers  of  your  wit.  Show  to  others  no  fine  sur- 
face to  call  forth  flattery,  compliments,  or  praise.  Come  to 
me,  laden  with  hatred  or  scorn,  the  butt  of  calumny,  come 
to  me  with  the  news  that  women  flout  you  and  ignore  you, 
and  not  one  loves  you;  then,  ah!  then  you  will  know  the 
treasures  of  Louise's  heart  and  love. 

We  are  only  rich  when  our  wealth  is  buried  so  deep  that 
all  the  world  might  trample  it  under  foot,  unknowing.  If 
you  were  handsome,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  looked 
at  you  twice,  or  discovered  one  of  the  thousand  reasons  out 


236  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

of  which  my  love  sprang.  True,  we  know  no  more  of  these 
reasons  than  we  know  why  it  is  the  sun  makes  the  flowers 
to  bloom,  and  ripens  the  fruit.  Yet  I  could  tell  you  of  one 
reason  very  dear  to  me. 

The  character,  expression,  and  individuality  that  ennoble 
your  face  are  a  sealed  book  to  all  but  me.  Mine  is  the  power 
which  transforms  you  into  the  most  lovable  of  men,  and  that 
is  why  I  would  keep  your  mental  gifts  also  for  myself.  To 
others  they  should  be  as  meaningless  as  your  eyes,  the 
charm  of  your  mouth  and  features.  Let  it  be  mine  alone  to 
kindle  the  beacon  of  your  intelligence,  as  I  bring  the  love- 
light  into  your  eyes.  I  would  have  you  the  Spanish  grandee 
of  old  days,  cold,  ungracious,  haughty,  a  monument  to  be 
gazed  at  from  afar,  like  the  ruins  of  some  barbaric  power, 
which  no  one  ventures  to  explore.  Now,  you  have  nothing 
better  to  do  than  to  open  up  pleasant  promenades  for  the 
public,  and  show  yourself  of  a  Parisian  affability ! 

Is  my  ideal  portrait,  then,  forgotten  ?  Your  excessive  cheer- 
fulness was  redolent  of  your  love.  Had  it  not  been  for  a 
restraining  glance  from  me,  you  would  have  proclaimed  to 
the  most  sharp-sighted,  keen-witted,  and  unsparing  of  Paris 
salons,  that  your  inspiration  was  drawn  from  Armande- 
Louise-Marie  de  Chaulieu. 

I  believe  in  your  greatness  too  much  to  think  for  a  mo- 
ment that  your  love  is  ruled  by  policy;  but  if  you  did  not 
show  a  childlike  simplicity  when  with  me,  I  could  only  pity 
you.  Spite  of  this  first  fault,  you  are  still  deeply  admired  by 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU. 


XXIII 

FELIPE  TO  LOUISE 

WHEN  God  beholds  our  faults,  He  sees  also  our  repentance. 
Yes,  my  beloved  mistress,  you  are  right.  I  felt  that  I  had 
displeased  you,  but  knew  not  how.  Now  that  you  have  ex- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  237 

plained  the  cause  of  your  trouble,  I  find  in  it  fresh  motive 
to  adore  you.  Like  the  God  of  Israel,  you  are  a  jealous  deity, 
and  I  rejoice  to  see  it.  For  what  is  holier  and  more  pre- 
cious than  jealousy?  My  fair  guardian  angel,  jealousy  is  an 
ever- wakeful  sentinel;  it  is  to  love  what  pain  is  to  the  body, 
the  faithful  herald  of  evil.  Be  jealous  of  your  servant, 
Louise,  I  beg  of  you ;  the  harder  you  strike,  the  more  contrite 
will  he  be  and  kiss  the  rod,  in  all  submission,  which  proves 
that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  you. 

But,  alas !  dear,  if  the  pains  it  cost  me  to  vanquish  my 
timidity  and  master  feelings  you  thought  so  feeble  were  in- 
visible to  you,  will  Heaven,  think  you,  reward  them?  I  as- 
sure you,  it  needed  no  slight  effort  to  show  myself  to  you 
as  I  was  in  the  days  before  I  loved.  At  Madrid  I  was  con- 
sidered a  good  talker,  and  I  wanted  you  to  see  for  yourself 
the  few  gifts  I  may  possess.  If  this  were  vanity,  it  has  been 
well  punished. 

Your  last  glance  utterly  unnerved  me.  Never  had  I 
so  quailed,  even  when  the  army  of  France  was  at  the  gates 
of  Cadiz  and  I  read  peril  for  my  life  in  the  dissembling 
words  of  my  royal  master.  Vainly  I  tried  to  discover  the 
cause  of  your  displeasure,  and  the  lack  of  sympathy  between 
us  which  this  fact  disclosed  was  terrible  to  me.  For  in  truth 
I  have  no  wish  but  to  act  by  your  will,  think  your  thoughts, 
see  with  your  eyes,  respond  to  your  joy  and  suffering,  as  my 
body  responds  to  heat  and  cold.  The  crime  and  the  anguish 
lay  for  me  in  the  breach  of  unison  in  that  common  life  of 
feeling  which  you  have  made  so  fair. 

"I  have  vexed  her !"  I  exclaimed  over  and  over  again,  like 
one  distraught.  My  noble,  my  beautiful  Louise,  if  anything 
could  increase  the  fervor  of  my  devotion  or  confirm  my  belief 
in  your  delicate  moral  intuitions,  it  would  be  the  new  light 
which  your  words  have  thrown  upon  my  own  feelings.  Much 
in  them,  of  which  my  mind  was  formerly  but  dimly  conscious, 
you  have  now  made  clear.  If  this  be  designed  as  chastise- 
ment, what  can  be  the  sweetness  of  your  rewards? 

Louise,  for  me  it  was  happiness  enough  to  be  accepted 


238  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

as  your  servant.  You  have  given  me  the  life  of  which  I  de- 
spaired. No  longer  do  I  draw  a  useless  breath,  I  have 
something  to  spend  myself  for;  my  force  has  an  outlet,  if 
only  in  suffering  for  you.  Once  more  I  say,  as  I  have  said 
before,  that  you  will  never  find  me  other  than  I  was  when 
first  I  offered  myself  as  your  lowly  bondman.  Yes,  were 
you  dishonored  and  lost,  to  use  your  own  words,  my  heart 
would  only  cling  the  more  closely  to  you  for  your  self- 
sought  misery.  It  would  be  my  care  to  staunch  your  wounds, 
and  my  prayers  should  importune  God  with  the  story  of  your 
innocence  and  your  wrongs. 

Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  feelings  of  my  heart  for  you 
are  not  a  lover's  only,  that  I  will  be  to  you  father,  mother, 
sister,  brother — ay,  a  whole  family — anything  or  nothing, 
as  you  may  decree?  And  is  it  not  your  own  wish  which  has 
confined  within  the  compass  of  a  lover's  feeling  so  many  vary- 
ing forms  of  devotion?  Pardon  me,  then,  if  at  times  the 
father  and  brother  disappear  behind  the  lover,  since  you 
know  they  are  none  the  less  there,  though  screened  from 
view.  Would  that  you  could  read  the  feelings  of  my  heart 
when  you  appear  before  me,  radiant  in  your  beauty,  the 
centre  of  admiring  eyes,  reclining  calmly  in  your  carriage 
in  the  Champs-Elysees,  or  seated  in  your  box  at  the  Opera ! 
Then  would  you  know  how  absolutely  free  from  selfish  taint 
is  the  pride  with  which  I  hear  the  praises  of  your  loveliness 
and  grace,  praises  which  warm  my  heart  even  to  the  strangers 
who  utter  them!  When  by  chance  you  have  raised  me  to 
elysium  by  a  friendly  greeting,  my  pride  is  mingled  with 
humility,  and  I  depart  as  though  God's  blessing  rested  on 
me.  Nor  does  the  joy  vanish  without  leaving  a  long  track 
of  light  behind.  It  breaks  on  me  through  the  clouds  of  my 
cigarette  smoke.  More  than  ever  do  I  feel  how  every  drop 
of  this  surging  blood  throbs  for  you. 

Can  you  be  ignorant  how  you  are  loved?  After  seeing 
you,  1  return  to  my  study,  and  the  glitter  of  its  Saracenic 
ornaments  sinks  to  nothing  before  the  brightness  of  your 
portrait,  when  I  open  the  spring  that  keeps  it  locked  up 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  239 

from  every  eye  and  lose  myself  in  endless  musings  or  link  my 
happiness  to  verse.  From  the  heights  of  heaven  I  look  down 
upon  the  course  of  a  life  such  as  my  hopes  dare  to  picture 
it !  •  Have  you  never,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  or  through 
the  roar  of  the  town,  heard  the  whisper  of  a  voice  in  your 
sweet,  dainty  ear  ?  Does  no  one  of  the  thousand  prayers  that 
I  speed  to  you  reach  home  ? 

By  dint  of  silent  contemplation  of  your  pictured  face, 
I  have  succeeded  in  deciphering  the  expression  of  every 
feature  and  tracing  its  connection  with  some  grace  of  the 
spirit,  and  then  I  pen  a  sonnet  to  you  in  Spanish  on  the 
harmony  of  the  twofold  beauty  in  which  nature  has  clothed 
you.  These  sonnets  you  will  never  see,  for  my  poetry  is  too 
unworthy  of  its  theme,  I  dare  not  send  it  to  you.  Not  a  mo- 
ment passes  without  thoughts  of  you,  for  my  whole  being 
is  bound  up  in  you,  and  if  you  ceased  to  be  its  animating 
principle,  every  part  would  ache. 

Now,  Louise,  can  you  realize  the  torture  to  me  of  knowing 
that  I  had  displeased  you,  while  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
cause?  The  ideal  double  life  which  seemed  so  fair  was  cut 
short.  My  heart  turned  to  ice  within  me  as,  hopeless  of  any 
other  explanation,  I  concluded  that  you  had  ceased  to  love 
me.  With  heavy  heart,  and  yet  not  wholly  without  com- 
fort, I  was  falling  back  upon  my  old  post  as  servant;  then 
your  letter  came  and  turned  all  to  joy.  Oh !  might  I  but 
listen  for  ever  to  such  chiding ! 

Once  a  child,  picking  himself  up  from  a  tumble,  turned 
to  his  mother  with  the  words  "Forgive  me."  Hiding  his  own 
hurt,  he  sought  pardon  for  the  pain  he  had  caused  her. 
Louise,  I  was  that  child,  and  such  as  I  was  then,  I  am  now. 
Here  is  the  key  to  my  character,  which  your  slave  in  all 
humility  places  in  your  hands. 

But  do  not  fear,  there  will  be  no  more  stumbling.  Keep 
tight  the  chain  which  binds  me  to  you,  so  that  a  touch  may 
communicate  your  lightest  wish  to  him  who  will  ever  re- 
main your  slave,  FELIPE. 


240  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


XXIV 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU  TO  REN^E  DE  I/ESTORADE 

October  1825. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — How  is  it  possible  that  you,  who  brought 
yourself  in  two  months  to  marry  a  broken-down  invalid  in 
order  to  mother  him,  should  know  anything  of  that  terrible 
shifting  drama,  enacted  in  the  recesses  of  the  heart,  which 
we  call  love — a  drama  where  death  lies  in  a  glance  or  a 
light  reply? 

I  had  reserved  for  Felipe  one  last  supreme  test  which 
was  to  be  decisive.  I  wanted  to  know  whether  his  love  was 
the  love  of«a  Koyalist  for  his  King,  who  can  do  no  wrong. 
Why  should  the  loyalty  of  a  Catholic  be  less  supreme? 

He  walked  with  me  a  whole  night  under  the  limes  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  and  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  crossed 
his  soul.  Next  day  he  loved  me  better,  but  the  feeling  was 
as  reverent,  as  humble,  as  regretful  as  ever;  he  had  not  pre- 
sumed an  iota.  Oh!  he  is  a  very  Spaniard,  a  very  Aben- 
cerrage.  He  scaled  my  wall  to  come  and  kiss  the  hand  which 
in  the  darkness  I  reached  down  to  him  from  my  balcony.  He 
might  have  broken  his  neck;  how  many  of  our  young  men 
would  do  the  like  ? 

But  all  this  is  nothing;  Christians  suffer  the  horrible 
pangs  of  martyrdom  in  the  hope  of  heaven.  The  day  before 
yesterday  I  took  aside  the  royal  ambassador-to-be  at  the  Court 
of  Spain,  my  much  respected  father,  and  said  to  him  with 
a  smile : 

"Sir,  some  of  your  friends  will  have  it  that  you  are  marry- 
ing your  dear  Armande  to  the  nephew  of  an  ambassador  who 
has  been  very  anxious  for  this  connection,  and  has  long 
begged  for  it.  Also,  that  the  marriage-contract  arranges 
for  his  nephew  to  succeed  on  his  death  to  his  enormous  for- 
tune and  his  title,  and  bestows  on  the  young  couple  in  the 
meantime  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  livres,  on  the 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  241 

bride  a  dowry  of  eight  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your 
daughter  weeps,  but  bows  to  the  unquestioned  authority  of 
her  honored  parent.  Some  people  are  unkind  enough  to  say 
that,  behind  her  tears,  she  conceals  a  worldly  and  ambitious 
soul. 

"Now,  we  are  going  to  the  gentleman's  box  at  the  Opera 
to-night,  and  M.  le  Baron  de  Macumer  will  visit  us  there." 

"Macumer  needs  a  touch  of  the  spur  then,"  said  my 
father,  smiling  at  me,  as  though  I  were  a  female  ambas- 
sador. 

"You  mistake  Clarissa  Harlowe  for  Figaro !"  I  cried,  with 
a  glance  of  scorn  and  mockery.  "When  you  see  me  with 
my  right  hand  ungloved,  you  will  give  the  lie  to  this  imperti- 
nent gossip,  and  will  mark  your  displeasure  at  it." 

"I  may  make  my  mind  easy  about  your  future.  You 
have  no  more  got  a  girl's  headpiece  than  Jeanne  d'Arc  had 
a  woman's  heart.  You  will  be  happy,  you  will  love  nobody, 
and  will  allow  yourself  to  be  loved." 

This  was  too  much.    I  burst,  into  laughter. 

"What  is  it,  little  flirt  ?"  he  said. 

"I  tremble  for  my  country's  interests     .     .     ." 

And  seeeing  him  look  quite  blank,  I  added: 

"At  Madrid!" 

"You  have  no  idea  how  this  little  nun  has  learned,  in  a 
year's  time,  to  make  fun  of  her  father,"  he  said  to  the 
Duchess. 

"Armande  makes  light  of  everything,"  my  mother  replied, 
looking  me  in  the  face. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  you  are  not  even  afraid  of  rheumatism  on  these 
damp  nights,"  she  said,  with  another  meaning  glance  at 
me. 

"Oh !"  I  answered,  "the  mornings  are  so  hot !" 

The  Duchess  looked  down. 

"It's  high  time  she  were  married,"  said  my  father,  "and 
it  had  better  be  before  I  go." 

"If  you  wish  it,"  I  replied  demurely. 


242  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Two  hours  later,  my  mother  and  I,  the  Duchesse  de  Mau- 
frigneuse  and  Mme.  d'Espard,  were  all  four  blooming  like 
roses  in  the  front  of  the  box.  I  had  seated  myself  sideways, 
giving  only  a  shoulder  to  the  house,  so  that  I  could  see 
everything,  myself  unseen,  in  that  spacious  box  which  fills  one 
of  the  two  angles  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  between  the  col- 
umns. 

Macumer  came,  stood  up,  and  put  his  opera-glasses  before 
his  eyes  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  look  at  me  comfortably. 

In  the  first  interval  entered  the  young  man  whom  I  call 
"king  of  the  profligates."  The  Comte  Henri  de  Marsay, 
who  has  great  beauty  of  an  effeminate  kind,  entered  the  box 
with  an  epigram  in  his  eyes,  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  an  air 
of  satisfaction  over  his  whole  countenance.  He  first  greeted 
my  mother,  Mme.  d'Espard,  and  the  Duchesse  de  Mau- 
frigneuse,  the  Comte  d'Esgrignon,  and  M.  de  Canalis;  then 
turning  to  me,  he  said : 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  be  the  first  to  congratulate 
you  on  an  event  which  will  make  you  the  object  of  envy  to 
many." 

"Ah !  a  marriage !"  I  cried.  "Is  it  left  for  me,  a  girl  fresh 
from  the  convent,  to  tell  you  that  predicted  marriages  never 
come  off." 

M.  de  Marsay  bent  down,  whispering  to  Macumer,  and  I 
was  convinced,  from  the  movement  of  his  lips,  that  what  he 
said  was  this : 

"Baron,  you  are  perhaps  in  love  with  that  little  coquette, 
•who  has  used  you  for  her  own  ends;  but  as  the  question 
is  one  not  of  love,  but  of  marriage,  it  is  as  well  for  you  to 
know  what  is  going  on." 

Macumer  treated  this  officious  scandal-monger  to  one  of 
those  glances  of  his  which  seem  to  me  so  eloquent  of  noble 
scorn,  and  replied  to  the  effect  that  he  was  "not  in  love  with 
any  little  coquette."  His  whole  bearing  so  delighted  me,  that 
directly  I  caught  sight  of  my  father,  the  glove  was  off. 

Felipe  had  not  a  shadow  of  fear  or  doubt.  How  well  did  he 
bear  out  my  expectations !  His  faith  is  only  in  me,  society 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  243 

cannot  hurt  him  with  its  lies.  Not  a  muscle  of  the  Arab's 
face  stirred,  not  a  drop  of  the  blue  blood  flushed  his  olive 
cheek. 

The  two  young  counts  went  out,  and  I  said,  laughing,  to 
Macumer : 

"M.  de  Marsay  has  been  treating  you  to  an  epigram  on 
me." 

"He  did  more,"  he  replied.    "It  was  an  epithalamium." 

"You  speak  Greek  to  me,"  I  said,  rewarding  him  with 
a  smile  and  a  certain  look  which  always  embarrasses  him. 

My  father  meantime  was  talking  to  Mme.  de  Mau- 
frigneuse. 

"I  should  think  so !"  he  exclaimed.  "The  gossip  which  gets 
about  is  scandalous.  No  sooner  has  a  girl  come  out  than 
every  one  is  keen  to  marry  her,  and  the  ridiculous  stories 
that  are  invented!  I  shall  never  force  Armande  to  marry 
against  her  will.  I  am  going  to  take  a  turn  in  the  promenade, 
otherwise  people  will  be  saying  that  I  allowed  the  rumor  to 
spread  in  order  to  suggest  the  marriage  to  the  ambassador; 
and  Caesar's  daughter  ought  to  be  above  suspicion,  even  more 
than  his  wife — if  that  were  possible." 

The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  and  Mme.  d'Espard  shot 
glances  first  at  my  mother,  then  at  the  Baron,  brimming  over 
with  sly  intelligence  and  repressed  curiosity.  With  their  ser- 
pent's cunning  they  had  at  last  got  an  inkling  of  something 
going  on.  Of  all  mysteries  in  life,  love  is  the  least  mys- 
terious !  It  exhales  from  women,  I  believe,  like  a  perfume, 
and  she  who  can  conceal  it  is  a  very  monster!  Our  eyes 
prattle  even  more  than  our  tongues. 

Having  enjoyed  the  delightful  sensation  of  finding  Felipe 
rise  to  the  occasion,  as  I  had  wished,  it  was  only  in  nature 
I  should  hunger  for  more.  So  I  made  the  signal  agreed  on 
for  telling  him  that  he  might  come  to  my  window  by  the 
dangerous  road  you  know  of.  A  few  hours  later  I  found  him, 
upright  as  a  statue,  glued  to  the  wall,  his  hand  resting  on 
the  balcony  of  my  window,  studying  the  reflections  of  the 
light  in  my  room. 


244  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"My  dear  Felipe,"  I  said,  "you  have  acquitted  yourself  well 
to-night;  you  behaved  exactly  as  I  should  have  done  had  I 
been  told  that  you  were  on  the  point  of  marrying." 

"I  thought,"  he  replied,  "that  you  would  hardly  have  told 
others  before  me." 

"And  what  right  have  you  to  this  privilege?" 

"The  right  of  one  who  is  your  devoted  slave." 

"In  very  truth?" 

"I  am,  and  shall  ever  remain  so." 

"But  suppose  this  marriage  were  inevitable;  suppose  that 
I  had  agreed  .  .  ." 

Two  flashing  glances  lit  up  the  moonlight — one  directed 
to  me,  the  other  to  the  precipice  which  the  wall  made  for 
us.  He  seemed  to  calculate  whether  a  fall  together  would 
mean  death;  but  the  thought  merely  passed  like  lightning 
over  his  face  and  sparkled  in  his  eyes.  A  power,  stronger 
than  passion,  checked  the  impulse. 

"An  Arab  cannot  take  back  his  word,"  he  said  in  a  husky 
voice.  "I  am  your  slave  to  do  with  as  you  will;  my  life  is 
not  mine  to  destroy." 

The  hand  on  the  balcony  seemed  as  though  its  hold  were 
relaxing.  I  placed  mine  on  it  as  I  said : 

"Felipe,  my  beloved,  from  this  moment  I  am  your  wife 
in  thought  and  will.  Go  in  the  morning  to  ask  my  father 
for  my  hand.  He  wishes  to  retain  my  fortune;  but  if  you 
promise  to  acknowledge  receipt  of  it  in  the  contract,  his  con- 
sent will  no  doubt  be  given.  I  am  no  longer  Armande  de 
Chaulieu.  Leave  me  at  once ;  no  breath  of  scandal  must  touch 
Louise  de  Macumer." 

He  listened  with  blanched  face  and  trembling  limbs,  then, 
like  a  flash,  had  cleared  the  ten  feet  to  the  ground  in  safety. 
It  was  a  moment  of  agony,  but  he  waved  his  hand  to  me  and 
disappeared. 

"I  am  loved  then."  I  said  to  myself,  "as  never  woman  was 
before."  And  I  fell  asleep  in  the  calm  content  of  a  child, 
my  destiny  for  ever  fixed. 

About  two  o'clock  next  day  my  father  summoned  me  to  his 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  245 

private  room,  where  I  found  the  Duchess  and  Maeumer. 
There  was  an  interchange  of  civilities.  I  replied  quite  simply 
that  if  my  father  and  M.  Henarez  were  of  one  mind,  I  had 
no  reason  to  oppose  their  wishes.  Thereupon  my  mother  in- 
vited the  Baron  to  dinner ;  and  after  dinner,  we  all  four  went 
for  a  drive  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  smiling  ironically  to  M.  de  Marsay  as  he  passed  on  horse- 
back and  caught  sight  of  Maeumer  sitting  opposite  to  us  be- 
side my  father. 

My  bewitching  Felipe  has  had  his  cards  reprinted  as  fol- 
lows: 

HENAREZ 
(Baron  de  Maeumer,  formerly  Due  de  Soria.) 

Every  morning  he  brings  me  with  his  own  hands  a  splendid 
bouquet,  hidden  in  which  I  never  fail  to  find  a  letter,  con- 
taining a  Spanish  sonnet  in  my  honor,  which  he  has  composed 
during  the  night.  * 

Not  to  make  this  letter  inordinately  large,  I  send  you  as 
specimens  only  the  first  and  last  of  these  sonnets,  which  I 
have  translated  for  your  benefit,  word  for  word,  and  line  for 
line : — 

FIRST  SONNET 

Many  a  time  I've  stood,  clad  in  thin  silken  vest, 
Drawn  sword  in  hand,  with  steady  pulse, 
Waiting  the  charge  of  a  raging  bull, 

And  the  thrust  of  his  horn,  sharper-pointed  than  Phoebe's  cres- 
cent. 

I've  scaled,  on  my  lips  the  lilt  of  an  Andalusian  dance, 
The  steep  redoubt  under  a  rain  of  fire; 
I've  staked  my  life  upon  a  hazard  of  the  dice, 
Careless,  as  though  it  were  a  gold  doubloon. 


246 

My  hand  would  seek  the  ball  out  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 
But  now  meseems  I  grow  more  timid  than  a  crouching  hare, 
Or  a  child  spying  some  ghost  in  the  curtain's  folds. 

For  when  your  sweet  eye  rests  on  me, 

An  icy  sweat  covers  my  brow,  my  knees  give  way, 

I  tremble,  shrink,  my  courage  gone. 

SECOND  SONNET 

Last  night  I  fain  would  sleep  to  dream  of  thee, 

But  jealous  sleep  fled  my  eyelids, 

I  sought  the  balcony  and  looked  towards  heaven, 

Always  my  glance  flies  upward  when  I  think  of  thee. 

Strange  sight!  whose  meaning  love  alone  can. tell, 
The  sky  had  lost  its  sapphire  hue, 
The  stars,  dulled  diamonds  in  their  golden  mount, 
Twinkled  no  more  nor  shed  their  warmth. 

The  moon,  washed  of  her  silver  radiance  lily-white, 

Hung  mourning  over  the  gloomy  plain,  for  thou  hast  robbed 

The  heavens  of  all  that  made  them  bright. 

The  snowy  sparkle  of  the  moon  is  on  thy  lovely  brow, 
Heaven's  azure  centres  in  thine  eyes, 
Thy  lashes  fall  like  starry  rays. 

What  more  gracious  way  of  saying  to  a  young  girl  that  she 
fills  your  life?  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  this  love,  which 
expends  itself  in  lavishing  the  treasures  alike  of  the  earth 
and  of  the  soul .  Only  within  the  last  ten  days  have  I  grasped 
the  meaning  of  that  Spanish  gallantry,  so  famous  in  old 
days. 

Ah  me !  dear,  what  is  going  on  now  at  La  Crampade  ?  How 
often  do  I  take  a  stroll  there,  inspecting  the  growth  of  our 
crops !  Have  you  no  news  to  give  of  our  mulberry  trees,  our 
last  winter's  plantations?  Does  everything  prosper  as  you 
wish?  And  while  the  buds  are  opening  on  our  shrubs — I 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  247 

will  not  venture  to  speak  of  the  bedding-out  plants — have  they 
also  blossomed  in  the  bosom  of  the  wife?  Does  Louis  con- 
tinue his  policy  of  madrigals  ?  Do  you  enter  into  each  other's 
thoughts?  I  wonder  whether  your  little  runlet  of  wedded 
peace  is  better  than  the  raging  torrent  of  my  love !  Has  my 
sweet  lady  professor  taken  offence?  I  cannot  believe  it;  and 
if  it  were  so,  I  should  send  Felipe  off  at  once,  post-haste,  to 
fling  himself  at  her  knees  and  bring  back  to  me  my  pardon  or 
her  head.  Sweet  love,  my  life  here  is  a  splendid  success, 
and  I  want  to  know  how  it  fares  with  life  in  Provence.  We 
have  just  increased  our  family  by  the  addition  of  a  Spaniard 
with  the  complexion  of  a  Havana  cigar,  and  your  congratula- 
tions still  tarry. 

Seriously,  my  sweet  Benee,  I  am  anxious.  I  am  afraid 
lest  you  should  be  eating  your  heart  out  in  silence,  for  fear 
of  casting  a  gloom  over  my  sunshine.  Write  to  me  at  once, 
naughty  child !  and  tell  me  your  life  in  its  every  minutest 
detail;  tell  me  whether  you  still  hold  back,  whether  your 
"independence"  still  stands  erect,  or  has  fallen  on  its  knees,  or 
is  sitting  down  comfortably,  which  would  indeed  be  serious. 
Can  you  suppose  that  the  incidents  of  your  married  life  are 
without  interest  for  me?  I  muse  at  times  over  all  that  you 
have  said  to  me.  Often  when,  at  the  Opera,  I  seem  absorbed 
in  watching  the  pirouetting  dancers,  I  am  saying  to  myself, 
"It  is  half-past  nine,  perhaps  she  is  in  bed.  What  is  she 
about  ?  Is  she  happy  ?  Is  she  alone  with  her  independence  ? 
or  has  her  independence  gone  the  way  of  other  dead  and  cast- 
off  independences?" 

A  thousand  loves. 

XXV 

EENEE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU 

SAUCY  girl!  Why  should  I  write?  What  could  I  say? 
Whilst  your  life  is  varied  by  social  festivities,  as  well  as  by 
the  anguish,  the  tempers,  and  the  flowers  of  love — all  of 


248  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

which  you  describe  so  graphically,  that  I  might  be  watching 
some  first-rate  acting  at  the  theatre — mine  is  as  monotonous 
and  regular  as  though  it  were  passed  in  a  convent. 

We  always  go  to  bed  at  nine  and  get  up  with  daybreak. 
Our  meals  are  served  with  a  maddening  punctuality.  Nothing 
ever  happens.  I  have  accustomed  myself  without  much  dif- 
ficulty to  this  mapping  out  of  the  day,  which  perhaps  is,  after 
all,  in  the  nature  of  things.  Where  would  the  life  of  the 
universe  be  but  for  that  subjection  to  fixed  laws  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  astronomers,  so  Louis  tells  me,  rule  the  spheres  ! 
It  is  not  order  of  which  we  weary. 

Then  I  have  laid  upon  myself  certain  rules  of  dress,  and 
these  occupy  my  time  in  the  mornings.  I  hold  it  part  of  my 
duty  as  a  wife  to  look  as  charming  as  possible.  I  feel  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  it,  and  it  causes  lively  pleasure  to 
the  good  old  man  and  to  Louis.  After  lunch,  we  walk.  When 
the  newspapers  arrive,  I  disappear  to  look  after  my  house- 
hold affairs  or  to  read — for  I  read  a  great  deal — or  to  write 
to  you.  I  come  back  to  the  others  an  hour  before  dinner ;  and 
after  dinner  we  play  cards,  or  receive  visits,  or  pay  them. 
Thus  my  days  pass  between  a  contented  old  man,  who  has  done 
with  passions,  and  the  man  who  owes  his  happiness  to  me. 
Louis'  happiness  is  so  radiant  that  it  has  at  last  warmed  my 
heart. 

For  women,  happiness  no  doubt  cannot  consist  in  the  mere 
satisfaction  of  desire.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  when  I 
am  not  required  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game,  and  can  sink 
back  in  my  armchair,  imagination  bears  me  on  its  strong 
wings  into  the  very  heart  of  your  life.  Then,  its  riches,  its 
changeful  tints,  its  surging  passions  become  my  own,  and 
I  ask  myself  to  what  end  such  a  stormy  preface  can  lead. 
May  it  not  swallow  up  the  book  itself?  For  you,  my  darling, 
the  illusions  of  love  are  possible;  for  me,  only  the  facts  of 
homely  life  remain.  Yes,  your  love  seems  to  me  a  dream ! 

Therefore  I  find  it  hard  to  understand  why  you  are  deter- 
mined to  throw  so  much  romance  over  it.  Your  ideal  man 
must  have  more  soul  than  fire,  more  nobility  and  self-corn- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  249 

mand  than  passion.  You  persist  in  trying  to  clothe  in  living 
form  the  dream  ideal  of  a  girl  on  the  threshold  of  life;  you 
demand  sacrifices  for  the  pleasure  of  rewarding  them;  you 
submit  your  Felipe  to  tests  in  order  to  ascertain  whether 
desire,  hope,  and  curiosity  are  enduring  in  their  nature.  But, 
child,  behind  all  your  fantastic  stage  scenery  rises  the  altar, 
where  everlasting  bonds  are  forged.  The  very  morrow  of  your 
marriage  the  graceful  structure  raised  by  your  subtle  strategy 
may  fall  before  that  terrible  reality  which  makes  of  a  girl  a 
woman,  of  a  gallant  a  husband.  Eemember  that  there  is  no 
exemption  for  lovers.  For  them,  as  for  ordinary  folk  like 
Louis  and  me,  there  lurks  beneath  the  wedding  rejoicings  the 
great  "Perhaps"  of  Eabelais. 

I  do  not  blame  you,  though,  of  course,  it  was  rash,  for 
talking  with  Felipe  in  the  garden,  or  for  spending  a  night 
with  him,  you  on  your  balcony,  he  on  his  wall ;  but  you  make 
a  plaything  of  life,  and  I  am  afraid  that  life  may  some  day 
turn  the  tables.  I  dare  not  give  you  the  counsel  which  my 
own  experience  would  suggest;  but  let  me  repeat  once  more 
from  the  seclusion  of  my  valley  that  the  viaticum  of  married 
life  lies  in  these  words — resignation  and  self-sacrifice.  For, 
spite  of  all  your  tests,  your  coyness,  and  your  vigilance,  I  can 
see  that  marriage  will  mean  to  you  what  it  has  been  to  me. 
.The  greater  the  passion,  the  steeper  the  precipice  we  have 
hewn  for  our  fall — that  is  the  only  difference. 

Oh !  what  I  would  give  to  see  the  Baron  de  Macumer  and 
talk  with  him  for  an  hour  or  two !  Your  happiness  lies  so 
near  niy  heart. 

XXVI 

LOUISE  DE  MACUMER  TO  RENEE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

March  1825. 

As  Felipe  has  carried  out,  with  a  truly  Saracenic  generosity, 
the  wishes  of  my  father  and  mother  in  acknowledging  the 
fortune  he  has  not  received  from  me,  the  Duchess  has  become 
even  more  friendly  to  me  than  before.  She  calls  me  little 


250  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

sly-boots,  little  woman  of  the  world,  and  says  I  know  how 
to  use  my  tongue. 

"But,  dear  mamma,"  I  said  to  her  the  evening  before  the 
contract  was  signed,  "you  attribute  to  cunning  and  smartness 
on  my  part  what  is  really  the  outcome  of  the  truest,  simplest, 
most  unselfish,  most  devoted  love  that  ever  was !  I  assure 
you  that  I  am  not  at  all  the  'woman  of  the  world'  you  do 
me  the  honor  of  believing  me  to  be." 

"Come,  come,  Armande,"  she  said,  putting  her  arm  on 
my  neck  and  drawing  me  to  her,  in  order  to  kiss  my  forehead, 
"you  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  the  convent,  you  did  not  want 
to  die  an  old  maid,  and,  like  a  fine,  noble-hearted  Chaulieu, 
as  you  are,  you  recognized  the  necessity  of  building  up  your 
fathers  family.  (The  Duke  was  listening.  If  you  knew, 
Renee,  what  flattery  lies  for  him  in  these  words.)  I  have 
watched  you  during  a  whole  winter,  poking  your  little  nose 
into  all  that  goes  on,  forming  very  sensible  opinions  about 
men  and  the  present  state  of  society  in  France.  And  you  have 
picked  out  the  one  Spaniard  capable  of  giving  you  the  splen- 
did position  of  a  woman  who  reigns  supreme  in  her  own 
house.  My  dear  little  girl,  you  treated  him  exactly  as  Tullia 
treats  your  brother." 

"What  lessons  they  give  in  my  sister's  convent !"  exclaimed 
my  father. 

A  glance  at  my  father  cut  him  short  at  once ;  then,  turning 
to  the  Duchess,  I  said : 

"Madame,  I  love  my  future  husband,  Felipe  de  Soria,  with 
all  the  strength  of  my  soul.  Although  this  love  sprang  up 
without  my  knowledge,  and  though  I  fought  it  stoutly  when 
it  first  made  itself  felt,  I  swear  to  you  that  I  never  gave  way 
to  it  till  I  had  recognized  in  the  Baron  de  Macumer  a  char- 
acter worthy  of  mine,  a  heart  of  which  the  delicacy,  the  gen- 
erosity, the  devotion,  and  the  temper  are  suited  to  my  own." 

"But,  my  dear,"  she  began,  interrupting  me,  "he  is  as 
ugly  as  ..." 

"As  anything  you  like,"  I  retorted  quickly,  "but  I  love  his 
ugliness." 


LETTEKS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  251 

"If  you  love  him,  Armande,"  said  my  father,  "and  have 
the  strength  to  master  your  love,  you  must  not  risk  your  hap- 
piness. Now,  happiness  in  marriage  depends  largely  on  the 
first  days " 

"Days  only  ?"  interrupted  my  mother.  Then,  with  a  glance 
at  my  father,  she  continued,  "You  had  better  leave  us,  my 
dear,  to  have  our  talk  together." 

"You  are  to  be  married,  dear  child,"  the  Duchess  then 
began  in  a  low  voice,  "in  three  days.  It  becomes  my  duty, 
therefore,  without  silly  whimpering,  which  would  be  unfitting 
our  rank  in  life,  to  give  you  the  serious  advice  which  every 
mother  owes  to  her  daughter.  You  are  marrying  a  man  whom 
you  love,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  pity  you  or 
myself.  I  have  only  known  you  for  a  year ;  and  if  this  period 
has  been  long  enough  for  me  to  learn  to  love  you,  it  is  hardly 
sufficient  to  justify  floods  of  tears  at  the  idea  of  losing  you. 
Your  mental  gifts  are  even  more  remarkable  than  those  of 
your  person;  you  have  gratified  maternal  pride,  and  have 
shown  yourself  a  sweet  and  loving  daughter.  I,  in  my  turn, 
can  promise  you  that  you  will  always  fi-nd  a  staunch  friend 
in  your  mother.  You  smile  ?  Alas !  it  too  often  happens  that 
a  mother  who  has  lived  on  excellent  terms  with  her  daughter, 
so  long  as  the  daughter  is  a  mere  girl,  comes  to  cross  purposes 
with  her  when  they  are  both  women  together. 

"It  is  your  happiness  which  I  want,  so  listen  to  my  words. 
The  love  which  you  now  feel  is  that  of  a  young  girl,  and  is 
natural  to  us  all,  for  it  is  woman's  destiny  to  cling  to  a  man. 
Unhappily,  pretty  one,  there  is  but  one  man  in  the  world  for 
a  woman !  And  sometimes  this  man,  whom  fate  has  marked 
out  for  us,  is  not  the  one  whom  we,  mistaking  a  passing  fancy 
for  love,  choose  as  husband.  Strange  as  what  I  say  may  ap- 
pear to  you,  it  is  worth  noting.  If  we  cannot  love  the  man 
we  have  chosen,  the  fault  is  not  exclusively  ours,  it  lies  with 
both,  or  sometimes  with  circumstances  over  which  we  have 
no  control.  Yet  there  is  no  reason  why  the  man  chosen  for 
us  by  our  family,  the  man  to  whom  our  fancy  has  gone  out, 
should  not  be  the  man  whom  we  can  love.  The  barrier? 


252  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

arise  later  between  husband  and  wife  are  often  due  to  lack 
of  perseverance  on  both  sides.  The  task  of  transforming  a 
husband  into  a  lover  is  not  less  delicate  than  that  other  task 
of  making  a  husband  of  the  lover,  in  which  you  have  just 
proved  yourself  marvelously  successful. 

"I  repeat  it,  your  happiness  is  my  object.  Never  allow 
yourself,  then,  to  forget  that  the  first  three  months  of  your 
married  life  may  work  your  misery  if  you  do  not  submit 
to  the  yoke  with  the  same  forbearance,  tenderness,  and  in- 
telligence that  you  have  shown  during  the  days  of  courtship. 
For,  my  little  rogue,  you  know  very  well  that  you  have  in- 
dulged in  all  the  innocent  pleasures  of  a  clandestine  love 
affair.  If  the  culmination  of  your  love  begins  with  disap- 
pointment, dislike,  nay,  even  with  pain,  well,  come  and  tell 
me  about  it.  Don't  hope  for  too  much  from  marriage  at  first ; 
it  will  perhaps  give  you  more  discomfort  than  joy.  The  hap- 
piness of  your  life  requires  at  least  as  patient  cherishing  as 
the  early  shoots  of  love. 

"To  conclude,  if  by  chance  you  should  lose  the  lover,  you 
will  find  in  his  place  the  father  of  your  children.  In  this, 
my  dear  child,  lies  the  whole  secret  of  social  life.  Sacrifice 
everything  to  the  man  whose  name  you  bear,  the  man  whose 
honor  and  reputation  cannot  suffer  in  the  least  degree  without 
involving  you  in  frightful  consequences.  Such  sacrifice  is 
thus  not  only  an  absolute  duty  for  women  of  our  rank,  it  is 
also  their  wisest  policy.  This,  indeed,  is  the  distinctive  mark 
of  great  moral  principles,  that  they  hold  good  and  are  ex- 
pedient from  whatever  aspect  they  are  viewed.  But  I  need 
say  no  more  to  you  on  this  point. 

"I  fancy  you  are  of  a  jealous  disposition,  and,  my  dear, 
if  you  knew  how  jealous  I  am !  But  you  must  not  be  stupid 
over  it.  To  publish  your  jealousy  to  the  world  is  like  playing 
at  politics  with  your  cards  upon  the  table,  and  those  who  let 
their  own  game  be  seen  learn  nothing  of  their  opponents'. 
Whatever  happens,  we  must  know  how  to  suffer  in  silence/' 

She  added  that  she  intended  having  some  plain  talk  about 
me  with  Macumer  the  evening  before  the  wedding. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  253 

Kaising  my  mother's  beautiful  arm,  I  kissed  her  hand  and 
dropped  on  it  a  tear,  which  the  tone  of  real  feeling  in  her 
voice  had  brought  to  my  eyes.  In  the  advice  she  had  given 
me,  I  read  high  principle  worthy  of  herself  and  of  me,  true 
wisdom,  and  a  tenderness  of  heart  unspoilt  by  the  narrow  code 
of  society.  Above  all,  I  saw  that  she  understood  my  character. 
These  few  simple  words  summed  up  the  lessons  which  life 
and  experience  had  brought  her,  perhaps  at  a  heavy  price. 
She  was  moved,  and  said,  as  she  looked  at  me : 

"Dear  little  girl,  you've  got  a  nasty  crossing  before  you. 
And  most  women,  in  their  ignorance  or  their  disenchantment, 
are  as  wise  as  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland !" 

We  both  laughed ;  but  I  must  explain  the  joke.  The  even- 
ing before,  a  Eussian  princess  had  told  us  an  anecdote  of  this 
gentleman.  He  had  suffered  frightfully  from  sea-sickness  in 
crossing  the  Channel,  and  turned  tail  when  he  got  near  Italy, 
because  he  heard  some  one  speak  of  "crossing"  the  Alps. 
"Thank  you;  I've  had  quite  enough  crossings  already,"  he 
said. 

You  will  understand,  Kenee,  that  your  gloomy  philosophy 
and  my  mother's  lecture  were  calculated  to  revive  the  fears 
which  used  to  disturb  us  at  Blois.  The  nearer  marriage  ap- 
proached, the  more  did  I  need  to  summon  all  my  strength, 
my  resolution,  and  my  affection  to  face  this  terrible  passage 
from  maidenhood  to  womanhood.  All  our  conversations 
came  back  to  my  mind,  I  re-read  your  letters  and  discerned 
in  them  a  vague  undertone  of  sadness. 

This  anxiety  had  one  advantage  at  least;  it  helped  me 
to  the  regulation  expression  for  a  bride  as  commonly  de- 
picted. The  consequence  was  that  on  the  day  of  signing  the 
contract  everybody  said  I  looked  charming  and  quite  the  right 
thing.  This  morning,  at  the  Mairie,  it  was  an  informal  busi- 
ness, and  only  the  witnesses  were  present. 

I  am  writing  this  tail  to  my  letter  while  they  are  putting 
out  my  dress  for  dinner.  We  shall  be  married  at  midnight 
at  the  Church  of  Sainte-Valere,  after  a  very  gay  evening.  I 
confess  that  my  fears  give  me  a  martyr-like  and  modest  air 


254  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

to  which  I  have  no  right,  but  which  will  be  admired — why, 
I  cannot  conceive.  I  am  delighted  to  see  that  poor  Felipe 
is  every  whit  as  timorous  as  I  am;  society  grates  on  him,  he 
is  like  a  bat  in  a  glass  shop. 

"Thank  Heaven,  the  day  won't  last  for  ever !"  he  whispered 
to  Yne  in  all  innocence. 

In  his  bashfulness  and  timidity  he  would  have  liked  to  have 
no  one  there. 

The  Sardinian  ambassador,  when  he  came  to  sign  the  con- 
tract, took  me  aside  in  order  to  present  me  with  a  pearl  neck- 
lace, linked  together  by  six  splendid  diamonds — a  gift  from 
my  sister-in-law,  the  Duchesse  de  Soria.  Along  with  the 
necklace  was  a  sapphire  bracelet,  on  the  under  side  of  which 
were  engraved  the  words,  "Though  unknown,  beloved."  Two 
charming  letters  came  with  these  presents,  which,  however,  I 
would  not  accept  without  consulting  Felipe. 

"For,"  I  said,  "I  should  not  like  to  see  you  wearing  orna- 
ments that  came  from  any  one  but  me." 

He  kissed  my  hand,  quite  moved,  and  replied:  ' 

"Wear  them  for  the  sake  of  the  inscription,  and  also  for  the 
kind  feeling,  which  is  sincere." 

Saturday  evening. 

Here,  then,  my  poor  Eenee,  are  the  last  words  of  your  girl 
friend.  After  the  midnight  Mass,  we  set  off  for  an  estate 
which  Felipe,  with  kind  thought  for  me,  has  bought  in 
Nivernais,  on  the  way  to  Provence.  Already  my  name  is 
Louise  de  Macumer,  but  I  leave  Paris  in  a  few  hours  as  Louise 
de  Chaulieu.  However  I  am  called,  there  will  never  be  for 
you  but  one  Louise. 

XXVII 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME 

October  1825. 

I  HAVE  not  written  to  you,  dear,  since  our  marriage,  nearly 
eight  months  ago.  And  not  a  line  from  you !  Madame,  you 
are  inexcusable. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  255 

To  begin  with,  we  set  off  in  a  post-chaise  for  the  Castle 
of  Chantepleurs,  the  property  which  Macumer  has  bought  in 
Mvernais.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  sixty  leagues 
from  Paris.  Our  servants,  with  the  exception  of  my  maid, 
were  there  before  us,  and  we  arrived,  after  a  very  rapid 
journey,  the  next  evening.  I  slept  all  the  way  from  Paris 
to  beyond  Montargis.  My  lord  and  master  put  his  arm  round 
me  and  pillowed  my  head  on  his  shoulder,  upon  an  arrange- 
ment of  handkerchiefs.  This  was  the  one  liberty  he  took; 
and  the  almost  motherly  tenderness  which  got  the  better  of  his 
drowsiness,  touched  me  strangely.  I  fell  asleep  then  under 
the  fire  of  his  eyes,  and  awoke  to  find  them  still  blazing ;  the 
passionate  gaze  remained  unchanged,  but  what  thoughts  had 
come  and  gone  meanwhile !  Twice  he  had  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead. 

At  Briare  we  had  breakfast  in  the  carriage.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  talk  like  our  old  talks  at  Blois,  while  the  same  Loire 
we  used  to  admire  called  forth  our  praises,  and  at  half-past 
seven  we  entered  the  noble  long  avenue  of  lime-trees,  acacias, 
sycamores,  and  larches  which  leads  to  Chantepleurs.  At 
eight  we  dined;  at  ten  we  were  in  our  bedroom,  a  charming 
Gothic  room,  made  comfortable  with  every  modern  luxury. 
Felipe,  who  is  thought  so  ugly,  seemed  to  me  quite  beautiful 
in  his  graceful  kindness  and  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  his 
affection.  Of  passion,  not  a  trace.  All  through  the  journey 
he  might  have  been  an  old  friend  of  fifteen  years'  standing. 
Later,  he  has  described  to  me,  with  all  the  vivid  touches  of  his 
first  letter,  the  furious  storms  that  raged  within  and  were 
not  allowed  to  ruffle  the  outer  surface. 

"So  far,  I  have  found  nothing  very  terrible  in  marriage," 
I  said,  as  I  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the  glori- 
ous moon  which  lit  up  a  charming  park,  breathing  of  heavy 
scents. 

He  drew  near,  put  his  arm  again  round  me,  and  said: 

"Why  fear  it  ?  Have  I  ever  yet  proved  false  to  my  promise 
in  gesture  or  look  ?  Why  should  I  be  false  in  the  future  ?" 

Yet  never  were  words  or  glances  more  full  of  mastery; 


256  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

his  voice  thrilled  every  fibre  of  my  heart  and  roused  a  sleeping 
force ;  his  eyes  were  like  the  sun  in  power. 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed,  "what  a  world  of  Moorish  perfidy  in 
this  attitude  of  perpetual  prostration !" 

He  understood,  my  dear. 

So,  my  fair  sweetheart,  if  I  have  let  months  slip  by  without 
writing,  you  can  now  divine  the  cause.  I  have  to  recall  the 
girl's  strange  past  in  order  to  explain  the  woman  to  myself. 
Benee,  I  understand  you  now.  Not  to  her  dearest  friend, 
not  to  her  mother,  not,  perhaps,  even  to  herself,  can  a  happy 
bride  speak  of  her  happiness.  This  memory  ought  to  remain 
absolutely  her  own,  an  added  rapture — a  thing  beyond  words, 
too  sacred  for  disclosure ! 

Is  it  possible  that  the  name  of  duty  has  been  given  to  the 
delicious  frenzy  of  the  heart,  to  the  overwhelming  rush  of 
passion?  And  for  what  purpose?  What  malevolent  power 
conceived  the  idea  of  crushing  a  woman's  sensitive  delicacy 
and  all  the  thousand  wiles  of  her  modesty  under  the  fetters 
of  constraint  ?  What  sense  of  duty  can  force  from  her  these 
flowers  of  the  heart,  the  roses  of  life,  the  passionate  poetry 
of  her  nature,  apart  from  love  ?  To  claim  feeling  as  a  right ! 
Why,  it  blooms  of  itself  under  the  sun  of  love,  and  shrivels 
to  death  under  the  cold  blast  of  distaste  and  aversion !  Let 
love  guard  his  own  rights ! 

Oh!  my  noble  Renee!  I  understand  you  now.  I  bow  to 
your  greatness,  amazed  at  the  depth  and  clearness  of  your 
insight.  Yes,  the  woman  who  has  not  used  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, as  I  have  done,  merely  to  legalize  and  publish  the 
secret  election  of  her  heart,  has  nothing  left  but  to  fly  to 
motherhood.  When  earth  fails,  the  soul  makes  for  heaven ! 

One  hard  truth  emerges  from  all  that  you  have  said.  Only 
men  who  are  really  great  know  how  to  love,  and  now  I  under- 
stand the  reason  of  this.  Man  obeys  two  forces — one  sensual, 
one  spiritual.  Weak  or  inferior  men  mistake  the  first  for  the 
last,  whilst  great  souls  know  how  to  clothe  the  merely  natural 
instinct  in  all  the  graces  of  the  spirit.  The  very  strength 
of  this  spiritual  passion  imposes  severe  self-restraint  and  in- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  257 

spires  them  with  reverence  for  women.  Clearly,  feeling  is 
sensitive  in  proportion  to  the  calibre  of  the  mental  powers 
generally,  and  this  is  why  the  man  of  genius  alone  has  some- 
thing of  a  woman's  delicacy.  He  understands  and  divines 
woman,  and  the  wings  of  passion  on  which  he  raises  her  are 
restrained  by  the  timidity  of  the  sensitive  spirit.  But  when 
the  mind,  the  heart,  and  the  senses  all  have  their  share  in 
the  rapture  which  transports  us — ah !  then  there  is  no  falling 
to  earth,  rather  it  is  to  heaven  we  soar,  alas  !  for  only  too  brief 
a  visit. 

Such,  dear  soul,  is  the  philosophy  of  the  first  three  months 
of  my  married  life.  Felipe  is  angelic.  Without  figure  of 
speech,  he  is  another  self,  and  I  can  think  aloud  with  him. 
His  greatness  of  soul  passes  my  comprehension.  Possession 
only  attaches  him  more  closely  to  me,  and  he  discovers  in  his 
happiness  new  motives  for  loving  me.  For  him,  I  am  the 
nobler  part  of  himself.  I  can  foresee  that  years  of  wedded 
life,  far  from  impairing  his  affection,  will  only  make  it  more 
assured,  develop  fresh  possibilities  of  enjoyment,  and  bind  us 
in  more  perfect  sympathy.  What  a  delirium  of  joy ! 

It  is  part  of  my  nature  that  pleasure  has  an  exhilarating 
effect  on  me ;  it  leaves  sunshine  behind,  and  becomes  a  part  of 
my  inner  being.  The  interval  which  parts  one  ecstasy  from 
another  is  like  the  short  night  which  marks  off  our  long 
summer  days.  The  sun  which  flushed  the  mountain  tops 
with  warmth  in  setting  finds  them  hardly  cold  when  it  rises. 
What  happy  chance  has  given  me  such  a  destiny  ?  My  mother 
had  roused  a  host  of  fears  in  me;  her  forecast,  which,  though 
free  from  the  alloy  of  vulgar  pettiness,  seemed  to  me  redolent 
of  jealousy,  has  been  falsified  by  the  event.  Your  fears  and 
hers,  my  own — all  have  vanished  in  thin  air ! 

We  remained  at  Chantepleurs  seven  months  and  a  half, 
for  all  the  .world  like  a  couple  of  runaway  lovers  fleeing  the 
parental  wrath,  while  the  roses  of  pleasure  crowned  our  love 
and  embellished  our  dual  solitude.  One  morning,  when  I  was 
even  happier  than  usual,  I  began  to  muse  over  my  lot,  and 
suddenly  Eenee  and  her  prosaic  marriage  flashed  into  my 


258  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

mind.  It  seemed  to  me  that  now  I  could  grasp  the  inner 
meaning  of  your  life.  Oh!  my  sweet,  why  do  we  speak  a 
different  tongue  ?  Your  marriage  of  convenience  and  my  love 
match  are  two  worlds,  as  widely  separated  as  the  finite  from 
infinity.  You  still  walk  the  earth,  whilst  I  range  the  heavens ! 
Your  sphere  is  human,  mine  divine !  Love  crowned  me  queen, 
you  reign  by  reason  and  duty.  So  lofty  are  the  regions  where 
I  soar,  that  a  fall  would  shiver  me  to  atoms. 

But  no  more  of  this.  I  shrink  from  painting  to  you  the 
rainbow  brightness,  the  profusion,  the  exuberant  joy  of  love's 
springtime,  as  we  know  it. 

For  ten  days  we  have  been  in  Paris,  staying  in  a  charming 
house  in  the  Eue  du  Bac,  prepared  for  us  by  the  architect 
to  whom  Felipe  intrusted  the  decoration  of  Chantepleurs.  I 
have  been  listening,  in  all  the  full  content  of  an  assured  and 
sanctioned  love,  to  that  divine  music  of  Eossini's,  which 
used  to  soothe  me  when,  as  a  restless  girl,  I  hungered  vaguely 
after  experience.  They  say  I  am  more  beautiful,  and  I  have 
a  childish  pleasure  in  hearing  myself  called  "Madame." 

Friday  morning. 

Ren6e,  my  fair  saint,  the  happiness  of  my  own  life  pulls 
me  for  ever  back  to  you.  I  feel  that  I  can  be  more  to  you 
than  ever  before,  you  are  so  dear  to  me !  I  have  studied  your 
wedded  life  closely  in  the  light  of  my  own  opening  chapters ; 
and  you  seem  to  me  to  come  out  of  the  scrutiny  so  great,  so 
noble,  so  splendid  in  your  goodness,  that  I  here  declare  myself 
your  inferior  and  humble  admirer,  as  well  as  your  friend. 
When  I  think  what  marriage  has  been  to  me,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  should  have  died,  had  it  turned  out  otherwise.  And  you 
live!  Tell  me  what  your  heart  feeds  on!  Never  again  shall 
I  make  fun  of  you.  Mockery,  my  sweet,  is  the  child  of  igno- 
rance; we  jest  at  what  we  know  nothing  of.  "Recruits  will 
laugh  where  the  veteran  soldier  looks  grave,"  was  a  remark 
made  to  me  by  the  Comte  de  Cbaulieu,  that  poor  cavalry  officer 
whose  campaigning  so  far  has  consisted  in  marches  from  Paris 
to  Fontainebleau  and  back  again. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  259 

I  surmise,  too,  my  dear  love,  that  you  have  not  told  me  all. 
There  are  wounds  which  you  have  hidden.  You  suffer;  I 
am  convinced  of  it.  In  trying  to  make  out  at  this  distance 
and  from  the  scraps  you  tell  me  the  reasons  of  your  conduct, 
I  have  weaved  together  all  sorts  of  romantic  theories  about 
you.  "She  has  made  a  mere  experiment  in  marriage,"  I 
thought  one  evening,  "and  what  is  happiness  for  me  has 
proved  only  suffering  to  her.  Her  sacrifice  is  barren  of  re- 
ward, and  she  would  not  make  it  greater  than  need  be.  The 
unctuous  axioms  of  social  morality  are  only  used  to  cloak  her 
disappointment."  Ah !  Eenee,  the  best  of  happiness  is  that 
it  needs  no  dogma  and  no  fine  words  to  pave  the  way;  it 
speaks  for  itself,  while  theory  has  been  piled  upon  theory 
to  justify  the  system  of  women's  vassalage  and  thralldom.  If 
self-denial  be  so  noble,  so  sublime,  what,  pray,  of  my  joy,  shel- 
tered by  the  gold-and-white  canopy  of  the  church,  and  wit- 
nessed by  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  most  sour-faced  of  mayors  ? 
Is  it  a  thing  out  of  nature  ? 

For  the  honor  of  the  law,  for  her  own  sake,  but  most  of 
all  to  make  my  happiness  complete,  I  long  to  see  my  Eenee 
content.  Oh !  tell  me  that  you  see  a  dawn  of  love  for  this 
Louis  who  adores  you !  Tell  me  that  the  solemn,  symbolic 
torch  of  Hymen  has  not  alone  served  to  lighten  your  darkness, 
but  that  love,  the  glorious  sun  of  our  hearts,  pours  his  rays 
on  you.  I  come  back  always,  you  see,  to  this  midday  blaze, 
which  will  be  my  destruction,  I  fear. 

Dear  Eenee,  do  you  remember  how,  in  your  outbursts  of 
girlish  devotion,  you  would  say  to  me,  as  we  sat  under  the 
vine-covered  arbor  of  the  convent  garden,  "I  love  you  so, 
Louise,  that  if  God  appeared  to  me  in  a  vision,  I  would  pray 
Him  that  all  the  sorrows  of  life  might  be  mine,  and  all  the 
joy  yours.  I  burn  to  suffer  for  you"  ?  Now,  darling,  the  day 
has  come  when  I  take  up  your  prayer,  imploring  Heaven 
to  grant  you  a  share  in  my  happiness. 

I  must  tell  you  my  idea.  I  have  a  shrewd  notion  that  you 
are  hatching  ambitious  plans  under  the  name  of  Louu,  de 
1'Estorade.  Very  good;  get  him  elected  deputy  at  the  ap- 


260  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

preaching  election,  for  he  will  be  very  nearly  forty  then; 
and  as  the  Chamber  does  not  meet  till  six  months  later,  he 
will  have  just  attained  the  age  necessary  to  qualify  for  a  seat. 
You  will  come  to  Paris — there,  isn't  that  enough?  My 
father,  and  the  friends  .1  shall  have  made  by  that  time,  will 
learn  to  know  and  admire  you ;  and  if  your  father-in-law  will 
agree  to  found  a  family,  we  will  get  the  title  of  Comte  for 
Louis.  That  is  something  at  least!  And  we  shall  be  to- 
gether. 


XXVIII 

BENEE  DE  I/ESTOKADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  MACUMER 

December  1825 

MY  thrice  happy  Louise,  your  letter  made  me  dizzy.  For 
a  few  moments  I  held  it  in  my  listless  hands,  while  a  tear 
or  two  sparkled  on  it  in  the  setting  sun.  I  was  alone  beneath 
the  small  barren  rock  where  I  have  had  a  seat  placed ;  far  off, 
like  a  lance  of  steel,  the  Mediterranean  shone.  The  seat 
is  shaded  by  aromatic  shrubs,  and  I  have  had  a  very  large  jes- 
samine, some  honeysuckle,  and  Spanish  brooms  transplanted 
there,  so  that  some  day  the  rock  will  be  entirely  covered  with 
climbing  plants.  The  wild  vine  has  already  taken  root  there. 
But  winter  draws  near,  and  all  this  greenery  is  faded  like  a 
piece  of  old  tapestry.  In  this  spot  I  am  never  molested ;  it  is 
understood  that  here  I  wish  to  be  alone.  It  is  named  Louise's 
seat — a  proof,  is  it  not,  that  even  in  solitude  I  am  not  alone 
here? 

If  I  tell  you  all  these  details,  to  you  so  paltry,  and  try 
to  describe  the  vision  of  green  with  which  my  prophetic  gaze 
clothes  this  bare  rock — on  whose  top  some  freak  of  nature 
has  set  up  a.  magnificent  parasol  pine — it  is  because  in  all 
this  I  have  found  an  emblem  to  which  I  cling. 

It  was  while  your  blessed  lot  was  filling  me  with  joy  and — 
must  I  confess  it  ? — with  bitter  envy  too,  that  I  felt  the  first 
movement  of  my  child  within,  and  this  mystery  of  physical 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  261 

life  reacted  upon  the  inner  recesses  of  my  soul.  This  inde- 
finable sensation,  which  partakes  of  the  nature  at  once  of 
a  warning,  a  delight,  a  pain,  a  promise,  and  a  fulfilment; 
this  joy,  which  is  mine  alone,  unshared  by  mortal,  this  won- 
der of  wonders,  has  whispered  to  me  that  one  day  this  rock 
shall  be  a  carpet  of  flowers,  resounding  to  the  merry  laughter 
of  children,  that  I  shall  at  last  be  blessed  among  women, 
and  from  me  shall  spring  forth  fountains  of  life.  Now  I 
know  what  I  have  lived  for !  Thus  the  first  certainty  of 
bearing  within  me  another  life  brought  healing  to  my  wounds. 
A  joy  that  beggars  description  has  crowned  for  me  those  long 
days  of  sacrifice,  in  which  Louis  had  already  found  his. 

Sacrifice !  I  said  to  myself,  how  far  does  it  excel  passion ! 
What  pleasure  has  roots  so  deep  as  one  which  is  not  personal 
but  creative  ?  Is  not  the  spirit  of  Sacrifice  a  power  mightier 
than  any  of  its  results?  Is  it  not  that  mysterious,  tireless 
divinity,  who  hides  beneath  innumerable  spheres  in  an  unex- 
plored centre,  through  which  all  worlds  in  turn  must  pass? 
Sacrifice,  solitary  and  secret,  rich  in  pleasures  only  tasted  in 
silence,  which  none  can  guess  at,  and  no  profane  eye  has  ever 
seen;  Sacrifice,  jealous  God  and  tyrant,  God  of  strength  and 
victory,  exhaustless  spring  which,  partaking  of  the  very  es- 
sence of  all  that  exists,  can  by  no  expenditure  be  drained  below 
its  own  level ; — Sacrifice,  there  is  the  keynote  of  my  life. 

For  you,  Louise,  love  is  but  the  reflex  of  Felipe's  passion; 
the  life  which  I  shed  upon  my  little  ones  will  come  back  to 
me  in  ever-growing  fulness.  The  plenty  of  your  golden  har- 
vest will  pass ;  mine,  though  late,  will  be  but  the  more  endur- 
ing, for  each  hour  will  see  it  renewed.  Love  may  be  the  fair- 
est gem  which  Society  has  filched  from  Nature;  but  what  is 
motherhood  save  Nature  in  her  most  gladsome  mood?  A 
smile  has  dried  my  tears.  Love  makes  my  Louis  happy,  but 
marriage  has  made  me  a  mother,  and  who  shall  say  I  am  not 
happy  also  ? 

With  slow  steps,  then,  I  returned  to  my  white  grange,  with 
its  green  shutters,  to  write  you  these  thoughts. 

So  it  is,  darling,  that  the  most  marvelous,  and  yet  the 


262  LETTEKS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

simplest,  process  of  nature  has  been  going  on  in  me  for  five 
months;  and  yet — in  your  ear  let  me  whisper  it — so  far  it 
agitates  neither  my  heart  nor  my  understanding.  I  see  all 
around  me  happy;  the  grandfather-to-be  has  become  a  child 
again,  trespassing  on  the  grandchild's  place ;  the  father  wears 
a  grave  and  anxious  look;  they  are  all  most  attentive  to  me, 
all  talk  of  the  joy  of  being  a  mother.  Alas !  I  alone  remain 
cold,  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  how  dead  I  am  to  all  emotion, 
though  I  affect  a  little  in  order  not  to  damp  the  general 
satisfaction.  But  with  you  I  may  be  frank;  and  I  confess 
that,  at  my  present  stage,  motherhood  is  a  mere  affair  of  the 
imagination. 

Louis  was  to  the  full  as  much  surprised  as  I.  Does  not 
this  show  how  little,  unless  by  his  impatient  wishes,  the 
father  counts  for  in  this  matter?  Chance,  my  dear,  is  the 
sovereign  deity  in  child-bearing.  My  doctor,  while  maintain- 
ing that  this  chance  works  in  harmony  with  nature,  does  not 
deny  that  children  who  are  the  fruit  of  passionate  love  are 
bound  to  be  richly  endowed  both  physically  and  mentally, 
and  that  often  the  happiness  which  shone  like  a  radiant  star 
over  their  birth  seems  to  watch  over  them  through  life.  It 
may  be  then,  Louise,  that  motherhood  reserves  joys  for  you 
which  I  shall  never  know.  It  may  be  that  the  feeling  of  a 
mother  for  the  child  of  a  man  whom  she  adores,  as  you  adore 
Felipe,  is  different  from  that  with  which  she  regards  the 
offspring  of  reason,  duty,  and  desperation! 

Thoughts  such  as  these,  which  I  bury  in  my  inmost  heart, 
add  to  the  preoccupation  only  natural  to  a  woman  soon  to  be 
a  mother.  And  yet,  as  the  family  cannot  exist  without  chil- 
dren, I  long  to  speed  the  moment  from  which  the  joys  of 
family,  where  alone  I  am  to  find  my  life,  shall  date  their 
beginning.  At  present  I  live  a  life  all  expectation  and  mystery, 
except  for  a  sickening  physical  discomfort,  which  no  doubt 
serves  to  prepare  a  woman  for  suffering  of  a  different  kind. 
I  watch  my  symptoms;  and  in  spite  of  the  attentions  and 
thoughtful  care  with  which  Louis'  anxiety  surrounds  me, 
I  am  conscious  of  a  vague  uneasiness,  mingled  with  the 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  263 

nausea,  the  distaste  for  food,  and  abnormal  longings  common 
to  my  condition.  If  I  am  to  speak  candidly,  I  must  confess, 
at  the  risk  of  disgusting  you  with  the  whole  business,  to  an 
incomprehensible  craving  for  rotten  fruit.  My  husband  goes 
to  Marseilles  to  fetch  the  finest  oranges  the  world  produces — 
from  Malta,  Portugal,  Corsica — and  these  I  don't  touch. 
Then  I  hurry  there  myself,  sometimes  on  foot,  and  in  a 
little  back  street,  running  down  to  the  harbor,  close  to  the 
Town  Hall,  I  find  wretched,  half -putrid  oranges,  two  for  a 
sou,  which  I  devour  eagerly.  The  bluish,  greenish  shades  on 
the  mouldy  parts  sparkle  like  diamonds  in  my  eyes,  they  are 
flowers  to  me;  I  forget  the  putrid  odor,  and  find  them  de- 
licious, with  a  piquant  flavor,  and  stimulating  as  wine.  My 
dear,  they  are  the  first  love  of  my  life !  Your  passion  for 
Felipe  is  nothing  to  this !  Sometimes  I  can  slip  out  secretly 
and  fly  to  Marseilles,  full  of  passionate  longings,  which  grow 
more  intense  as  I  draw  near  the  street.  I  tremble  lest  the 
woman  should  be  sold  out  of  rotten  oranges ;  I  pounce  on  them 
and  devour  them  as  I  stand.  It  seems  to  me  an  ambrosial 
food,  and  yet  I  have  seen  Louis  turn  aside,  unable  to  bear 
the  smell.  Then  came  to  my  mind  the  ghastly  words  of  Ober- 
mann  in  his  gloomy  elegy,  which  I  wish  I  had  never  read, 
"Roots  slake  their  thirst  in  foulest  streams."  Since  I  took 
to  this  diet,  the  sickness  has  ceased,  and  I  feel  much  stronger. 
This  depravity  of  taste  must  have  a  meaning,  for  it  seems 
to  be  part  of  a  natural  process  and  to  be  common  to  most 
women,  sometimes  going  to  most  extravagant  lengths. 

When  my  situation  is  more  marked,  I  shall  not  go  beyond 
the  grounds,  for  I  should  not  like  to  be  seen  under  these 
circumstances.  I  have  the  greatest  curiosity  to  know  at  what 
precise  moment  the  sense  of  motherhood  begins.  It  cannot 
possibly  be  in  the  midst  of  frightful  suffering,  the  very 
thought  of  which  makes  me  shudder. 

Farewell,  favorite  of  fortune!  Farewell,  my  friend,  in 
whom  I  live  again,  and  through  whom  I  am  able  to  picture 
to  myself  this  brave  love,  this  jealousy  all  on  fire  at  a  look, 
these  whisperings  in  the  ear,  these  joys  which  create  for 


264  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

women,  as  it  were,  a  new  atmosphere,  a  new  daylight,  fresh 
life !  Ah !  pet,  I  too  understand  love.  Don't  weary  of  telling 
me  everything.  Keep  faithful  to  our  bond.  I  promise,  in 
my  turn,  to  spare  you  nothing. 

Nay — to  conclude  in  all  seriousness — I  will  not  conceal 
from  you  that,  on  reading  your  letter  a  second  time,  I  was 
seized  with  a  dread  which  I  could  not  shake  off.  This  superb 
love  seems  like  a  challenge  to  Providence.  Will  not  the  sov- 
ereign master  of  this  earth,  Calamity,  take  umbrage  if  no 
place  be  left  for  him  at  your  feast?  What  mighty  edifice  of 
fortune  has  he  not  overthrown?  Oh!  Louise,  forget  not,  in 
all  this  happiness,  your  prayers  to  God.  Do  good,  be  kind 
and  merciful ;  let  your  moderation,  if  it  may  be,  avert  disaster. 
Religion  has  meant  much  more  to  me  since  I  left  the  convent 
and  since  my  marriage ;  but  your  Paris  news  contains  no  men- 
tion of  it.  In  your  glorification  of  Felipe,  it  seems  to  me 
you  reverse  the  saying,,  and  invoke  God  less  than  His  saint. 

But,  after  all,  this  panic  is  only  excess  of  affection.  You 
go  to  church  together,  I  do  not  doubt,  and  do  good  in  secret. 
The  close  of  this  letter  will  seem  to  you  very  primitive,  I  ex- 
pect, but  think  of  the  too  eager  friendship  which  prompts 
these  fears — a  friendship  of  the  type  of  'La  Fontaine's,  which 
takes  alarm  at  dreams,  at  half-formed,  misty  ideas.  You  de- 
serve to  be  happy,  since,  through  it  all,  you  still  think  of  me, 
no  less  than  I  think  of  you,  in  my  monotonous  life,  which, 
though  it  lacks  color,  is  yet  not  empty,  and,  if  uneventful, 
is  not  unfruitful.  God  bless  you,  then ! 


XXIX 

M.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER 

December  1825. 

MADAME, — It  is  the  desire  of  my  wife  that  you  should  not 
learn  first  from  the  formal  announcement  of  an  event  which 
has  filled  us  with  joy.  Renee  has  just  given  birth  to  a  fine  boy, 
whose  baptism  we  are  postponing  till  your  return  to  Chante- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  265 

pleurs.  Renee  and  I  both  earnestly  hope  that  you  may  then 
come  as  far  as  La  Crampade,  and  will  consent  to  act  as  god- 
mother to  our  firstborn.  In  this  hope,  I  have  had  him  placed 
on  the  register  under  the  name  of  Armand-Louis  de  PEsto- 
rade. 

Our  dear  Eenee  suffered  much,  but  bore  it  with  angelic 
patience.  You,  who  know  her,  will  easily  understand  that 
the  assurance  of  bringing  happiness  to  us  all  supported  her 
through  this  trying  apprenticeship  to  motherhood. 

Without  indulging  in  the  more  or  less  ludicrous  exaggera- 
tions to  which  the  novel  sensation  of  being  a  father  is  apt 
to  give  rise,  I  may  tell  you  that  little  Armand  is  a  beautiful 
infant,  and  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  believing  it  when 
I  add  that  he  has  Renee's  features  and  eyes.  So  far,  at  least, 
this  gives  proof  of  intelligence. 

The  physician  and  accoucheur  assure  us  that  Renee  is  now 
quite  out  of  danger ;  and  as  she  is  proving  an  admirable  nurse 
— Nature  has  endowed  her  so  generously ! — my  father  and  I 
are  able  to  give  free  rein  to  our  joy.  Madame,  may  I  be  al- 
lowed to  express  the  hope  that  this  joy,  so  vivid  and  intense, 
which  has  brought  fresh  life  into  our  house,  and  has  changed 
the  face  of  existence  for  my  dear  wife,  may  ere  long  be 
yours  ? 

Renee  has  had  a  suite  of  rooms  prepared,  and  I  only  wish 
I  could  make  them  worthy  of  our  guests.  But  the  cordial 
friendliness  of  the  reception  which  awaits  you  may  perhaps 
atone  for  any  lack  of  splendor. 

I  have  heard  from  Renee,  madame,  of  your  kind  thought 
in  regard  to  us,  and  I  take  this  opportunity  of  thanking 
you  for  it,  the  more  gladly  because  nothing  could  now  be 
more  appropriate.  The  birth  of  a  grandson  has  reconciled 
my  father  to  sacrifices  which  bear  hardly  on  an  old  man.  He 
has  just  bought  two  estates,  and  La  Crampade  is  now  a  prop- 
erty with  an  annual  rental  of  thirty  thousand  francs.  My 
father  intends  asking  the  King's  permission  to  form  an  en- 
tailed estate  of  it ;  and  if  you  are  good  enough  to  get  for  him 
the  title  of  which  you  spoke  in  your  last  letter,  you  will  have 
already  done  much  for  your  godson. 


266  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

For  my  part,  I  shall  carry  out  your  suggestion  solely  with 
the  object  of  bringing  you  and  Renee  together  during  the 
sessions  of  the  Chamber.  I  am  working  hard  with  the  view 
of  becoming  what  is  called  a  specialist.  But  nothing  could 
give  me  greater  encouragement  in  my  labors  than  the  thought 
that  you  will  take  an  interest  in  my  little  Armand.  Come, 
then,  we  beg  of  you,  and  with  your  beauty  and  your  grace, 
your  playful  fancy  and  your  noble  soul,  enact  the  part  of 
good  fairy  to  my  son  and  heir.  You  will  thus,  madame, 
add  undying  gratitude  to  the  respectful  regard  of 
Your  very  humble,  obedient  servant, 

Louis  DE  L'ESTORADE. 


XXX 

LOUISE  DE  MACUMER  TO   RENEE  DE   I/ESTORADE 

January  1826. 

MACUMER  has  just  wakened  me,  darling,  with  your  husband's 
letter.  First  and  foremost — Yes.  We  shall  be  going  to 
Chantepleurs  about  the  end  of  April.  To  me  it  will  be  a  piling 
up  of  pleasure  to  travel,  to  see  you,  and  to  be  the  godmother 
of  your  first  child.  I  must,  please,  have  Macumer  for  god- 
father. To  take  part  in  a  ceremony  of  the  Church  with  an- 
other as  my  partner  would  be  hateful  to  me.  Ah  !  if  you  could 
see  the  look  he  gave  me  as  I  said  this,  you  would  know  what 
store  this  sweetest  of  lovers  sets  on  his  wife ! 

"I  am  the  more  bent  on  our  visiting  La  Crampade  to- 
gether, Felipe,"  I  went  on,  "because  I  might  have  a  child 
there.  I  too,  you  know,  would  be  a  mother!  .  .  .  And 
yet,  can  you  fancy  me  torn  in  two  between  you  and  the  infant  ? 
To  begin  with,  if  I  saw  any  creature — were  it  even  my  own 
son — taking  my  place  in  your  heart,  I  couldn't  answer  for 
the  consequences.  Medea  may  have  been  right  after  all.  The 
Greeks  had  some  good  notions !" 

And  he  laughed. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  267 

So,  my  sweetheart,  you  have  the  fruit  without  the  flowers; 
I  the  flowers  without  the  fruit.  The  contrast  in  our  lives 
still  holds  good.  Between  the  two  of  us  we  have  surely 
enough  philosophy  to  find  the  moral  of  it  some  day.  Bah ! 
only  ten  months  married !  Too  soon,  you  will  admit,  to  give 
up  hope. 

We  are  leading  a  gay,  yet  far  from  empty  life,  as  is  the 
way  with  happy  people.  The  days  are  never  long  enough  for 
us.  Society,  seeing  me  in  the  trappings  of  a  married  woman, 
pronounces  the  Baronne  de  Macumer  much  prettier  than 
Louise  de  Chaulieu :  a  happy  love  is  a  most  becoming  cosmetic. 
When  Felipe  and  I  drive  along  the  Champs-Elysees  in  the 
bright  sunshine  of  a  crisp  January  day,  beneath  the  trees, 
frosted  with  clusters  of  white  stars,  and  face  all  Paris  on  the 
spot  where  last  year  we  met  with  a  gulf  between  us,  the  con- 
trast calls  up  a  thousand  fancies.  Suppose,  after  all,  your  last 
letter  should  be  right  in  its  forecast,  and  we  are  too  pre- 
sumptuous ! 

If  I  am  ignorant  of  a  mother's  joys,  you  shall  tell  me  about 
them;  I  will  learn  by  sympathy.  But  my  imagination  can 
picture  nothing  to  equal  the  rapture  of  love.  You  will  laugh 
at  my  extravagance;  but,  I  assure  you,  that  a  dozen  times  in 
as  many  months  the  longing  has  seized  me  to  die  at  thirty, 
while  life  was  still  untarnished,  amidst  the  roses  of  love,  in 
the  embrace  of  passion.  To  bid  farewell  to  the  feast  at  its 
brightest,  before  disappointment  has  come,  having  lived  in 
this  sunshine  and  celestial  air,  and  well-nigh  spent  myself  in 
love,  not  a  leaf  dropped  from  my  crown,  not  an  illusion  per- 
ished in  my  heart,  what  a  dream  is  there!  Think  what  it 
would  be  to  bear  about  a  young  heart  in  an  aged  body,  to  see 
only  cold,  dumb  faces  around  me,  where  even  strangers  used 
to  smile;  to  be  a  worthy  matron!  Can  Hell  have  a  worse 
torture  ? 

On  this  very  subject,  in  fact,  Felipe  and  I  have  had  our  first 
quarrel.  I  contended  that  he  ought  to  have  sufficient  moral 
strength  to  kill  me  in  my  sleep  when  I  have  reached  thirty, 
so  that  I  might  pass  from  one  dream  to  another.  The  wretch 


268  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

declined.  I  threatened  to  leave  him  alone  in  the  world,  and, 
poor  child,  he  turned  white  as  a  sheet.  My  dear,  this  distin- 
guished statesman  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  baby.  It  is 
incredible  what  youth  and  simplicity  he  contrived  to  hide 
away.  Now  that  I  allow  myself  to  think  aloud  with  him,  as  I 
do  with  you,  and  have  no  secrets  from  him,  we  are  always 
giving  each  other  surprises. 

Dear  Kenee,  Felipe  and  Louise,  the  pair  of  lovers,  want 
to  send  a  present  to  the  young  mother.  We  would  like  to 
get  something  that  would  give  you  pleasure,  and  we  don't 
share  the  popular  taste  for  surprises ;  so  tell  me  quite  frankly, 
please,  what  you  would  like.  It  ought  to  be  something  which 
would  recall  us  to  you  in  a  ^easant  way,  something  which 
you  will  use  every  day,  and  which  won't  wear  out  with  use. 
The  meal  which  with  us  is  most  cheerful  and  friendly  is 
lunch,  and  therefore  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  a  special 
luncheon  service,  ornamented  with  figures  of  babies.  If  you 
approve  of  this,  let  me  know  at  once;  for  it  will  have  to  be 
ordered  immediately  if  we  are  to  bring  it.  Paris  artists  are 
gentlemen  of  far  too  much  importance  to  be  hurried.  This 
will  be  my  offering  to  Lucina. 

Farewell,  dear  nursing  mother.  May  all  a  mother's  delights 
be  yours  !  I  await  with  impatience  your  first  letter,  which  will 
tell  me  all  about  it,  I  hope.  Some  of  the  details  in  your 
husband's  letter  went  to  my  heart.  Poor  Kenee,  a  mother 
has  a  heavy  price  to  pay.  I  will  tell  my  godson  how  dearly  he 
must  love  you.  No  end  of  love,  my  sweet  one. 


XXXI 

RENEE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  MACUMER 

IT  is  nearly  five  months  now  since  baby  was  born,  and  not 
once,  dear  heart,  have  T  found  a  single  moment  for  writing 
to  you.  When  you  are  a  mother  yourself,  you  will  be  more 
ready  to  excuse  me  than  you  are  now ;  for  you  have  punished 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  269 

me  a  little  bit  in  making  your  own  letters  so  few  and  far  be- 
tween. Do  write,  my  darling!  Tell  me  of  your  pleasures; 
lay  on  the  blue  as  brightly  as  you  please.  It  will  not  hurt 
me,  for  I  am  happy  now,  happier  than  you  can  imagine. 

I  went  in  state  to  the  parish  church  to  hear  the  Mass  for 
recovery  from  childbirth,  as  is  the  custom  in  the  old  families 
of  Provence.  I  was  supported  on  either  side  by  the  two  grand- 
fathers— Louis'  father  and  my  own.  Never  had  I  knelt  before 
God  with  such  a  flood  of  gratitude  in  my  heart.  I  have  so 
much  to  tell  you  of,  so  many  feelings  to  describe,  that  I  don't 
know  where  to  begin;  but  from  amidst  these  confused  memo- 
ries, one  rises  distinctly,  that  of  my  prayer  in  the  church. 

When  I  found  myself  transformed  into  a  joyful  mother, 
on  the  very  spot  where,  as  a  girl,  I  had  trembled  for  my 
future,  it  seemed  to  my  fancy  that  the  Virgin  on  the  altar 
bowed  her  head  and  pointed  to  the  infant  Christ,  who  smiled 
at  me!  My  heart  full  of  pure  and  heavenly  love,  I  held  out 
little  Armand  for  the  priest  to  bless  and  bathe,  in  anticipation 
of  the  regular  baptism  to  come  later.  But  you  will  see  us 
together  then,  Armand  and  me. 

My  child — see  how  readily  the  word  comes,  and  indeed 
there  is  none  sweeter  to  a  mother's  heart  and  mind  or  on  her 
lips — well,  then,  dear  child,  during  the  last  two  months  I 
used  to  drag  myself  wearily  and  heavily  about  the  gardens, 
not  realizing  yet  how  precious  was  the  burden,  spite  of  all 
the  discomforts  it  brought !  I  was  haunted  by  forebodings 
so  gloomy  and  ghastly,  that  they  got  the  better  even  of  curi- 
osity ;  in  vain  did  I  reason  with  myself  that  no  natural  func- 
tion could  be  so  very  terrible,  in  vain  did  I  picture  the  de- 
Rights  of  motherhood.  My  heart  made  no  response  even  to 
the  thought  of  the  little  one,  who  announced  himself  by  lively 
kicking.  That  is  a  sensation,  dear,  which  may  be  welcome 
when  it  is  familiar;  but  as  a  novelty,  it  is  more  strange  than 
pleasing.  I  speak  for  myself  at  least ;  you  know  I  would  never 
affect  anything  I  did  not  really  feel,  and  I  look  on  my  child 
as  a  gift  straight  from  Heaven.  For  one  who  saw  in  it 
rather  the  image  of  the  man  she  loved,  it  might  be  different. 


270  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

But  enough  of  such  sad  thoughts,  gone,  I  trust,  for  ever. 

When  the  crisis  came,  I  summoned  all  my  powers  of  re- 
sistance, and  braced  myself  so  well  for  suffering,  that  I. bore 
the  horrible  agony — so  they  tell  me — quite  marvelously.  For 
about  an  hour  I  sank  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  of  the  nature  of  a 
dream.  I  seemed  to  myself  then  two  beings — an  outer  cover- 
ing racked  and  tortured  by  red-hot  pincers,  and  a  soul  at 
peace.  In  this  strange  state  the  pain  formed  itself  into  a 
sort  of  halo  hovering  over  me.  A  gigantic  rose  seemed  to 
spring  out  of  my  head  and  grow  ever  larger  and  larger,  till 
it  enfolded  me  in  its  blood-red  petals.  The  same  color  dyed 
the  air  around,  and  everything  I  saw  was  blood-red.  At  last 
the  climax  came,  when  soul  and  body  seemed  no  longer  able  to 
hold  together;  the  spasms  of  pain  gripped  me  like  death 
itself.  I  screamed  aloud,  and  found  fresh  strength  against 
this  fresh  torture.  Suddenly  this  concert  of  hideous  cries 
was  overborne  by  a  joyful  sound — the  shrill  wail  of  the  new- 
born infant.  No  words  can  describe  that  moment.  It  was  as 
though  the  universe  took  part  in  my  cries,  when  all  at  once 
the  chorus  of  pain  fell  hushed  before  the  child's  feeble  note. 

They  laid  me  back  again  in  the  large  bed,  and  it  felt  like 
paradise  to  me,  even  in  my  extreme  exhaustion.  Three  or 
four  happy  faces  pointed  through  tears  to  the  child.  My  dear, 
I  exclaimed  in  terror : 

"It's  just  like  a  little  monkey!  Are  you  really  and  truly 
certain  it  is  a  child  ?" 

I  fell  back  on  my  side,  miserably  disappointed  at  my  first 
experience  of  motherly  feeling. 

"Don't  worry,  dear,"  said  my  mother,  who  had  installed 
herself  as  nurse.  "Why,  you've  got  the  finest  baby  in  the 
world.  You  mustn't  excite  yourself;  but  give  your  whole  mind 
now  to  turning  yourself  as  much  as  possible  into  an  animal, 
a  milch  cow,  pasturing  in  the  meadow." 

I  fell  asleep  then,  fully  resolved  to  let  nature  have  her  way. 

Ah!  my  sweet,  how  heavenly  it  was  to  waken  up  from  all 
the  pain  and  haziness  of  the  first  days,  when  everything  was 
still  dim,  uncomfortable,  confused.  A  ray  of  light  pierced 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  271 

the  darkness;  my  heart  and  soul,  my  inner  self — a  self  I  had 
never  known  before — rent  the  envelope  of  gloomy  suffering, 
as  a  flower  bursts  its  sheath  at  the  first  warm  kiss  of  the 
sun,  at  the  moment  when  the  little  wretch  fastened  on  my 
breast  and  sucked.  Not  even  the  sensation  of  the  child's  first 
cry  was  so  exquisite  as  this.  This  is  the  dawn  of  motherhood, 
this  is  the  Fiat  lux! 

Here  is  happiness,  joy  ineffable,  though  it  comes  not  with- 
out pangs.  Oh !  my  sweet  jealous  soul,  how  you  will  relish 
a  delight  which  exists  only  for  ourselves,  the  child,  and  God ! 
For  this  tiny  creature  all  knowledge  is  summed  up  in  its 
mother's  breast.  This  is  the  one  bright  spot  in  its  world, 
towards  which  its  puny  strength  goes  forth.  Its  thoughts 
cluster  round  this  spring  of  life,  which  it  leaves  only  to 
sleep,  and  whither  it  returns  on  waking.  Its  lips  have  a 
sweetness  beyond  words,  and  their  pressure  is  at  once  a  pain 
and  a  delight,  a  delight  which  by  every  excess  becomes  pain, 
or  a  pain  which  culminates  in  delight.  The  sensation  which 
rises  from  it,  and  which  penetrates  to  the  very  core  of  my  life, 
baffles  all  description.  It  seems  a  sort  of  centre  whence  a 
myriad  joy-bearing  rays  gladden  the  heart  and  soul.  To  bear 
a  child  is  nothing;  to  nourish  it  is  birth  renewed  every  hour. 

Oh  !  Louise,  there  is  no  caress  of  lover  with  half  the  power  of 
those  little  pink  hands,  as  they  stray  about,  seeking 'whereby 
to  lay  hold  on  life.  And  the  infant  glances,  now  turned  upon 
the  breast,  now  raised  to  meet  our  own !  .What  dreams  come 
to  us  as  we  watch  the  clinging  nursling!  All  our  powers, 
whether  of  mind  or  body,  are  at  its  service ;  for  it  we  breathe 
and  think,  in  it  our  longings  are  more  than  satisfied !  The 
sweet  sensation  of  warmth  at  the  heart,  which  the  sound  of  his 
first  cry  brought  to  me — like  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  on  the 
earth — came  again  as  I  felt  the  milk  flow  into  his  mouth, 
again  as  his  eyes  met  mine,  and  at  this  moment  I  have  felt 
it  once  more  as  his  first  smile  gave  token  of  a  mind  working 
within — for  he  has  laughed,  my  dear !  A  laugh,  a  glance, 
a  bite,  a  cry — four  miracles  of  gladness  which  go  straight  to 
the  heart  and  strike  chords  that  respond  to  no  other  touch. 


272  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

A  child  is  tied  to  our  heart-strings,  as  the  spheres  are  linked 
to  their  creator;  we  cannot  think  of  God  except  as  a  mother's 
heart  writ  large. 

It  is  only  in  the  act  of  nursing  that  a  woman  realizes  her 
motherhood  in  visible  and  tangible  fashion;  it  is  a  joy  of 
every  moment.  The  milk  becomes  flesh  before  our  eyes;  it 
blossoms  into  the  tips  of  those  delicate  flower-like  fingers;  it 
expands  in  tender,  transparent  nails;  it  spins  the  silky 
tresses ;  it  kicks  in  the  little  feet.  Oh !  those  baby  feet,  how 
plainly  they  talk  to  us !  In  them  the  child  finds  its  first 
language. 

Yes,  Louise,  nursing  is  a  miracle  of  transformation  going 
on  before  one's  bewildered  eyes.  Those  cries,  they  go  to  your 
heart  and  not  your  ears;  those  smiling  eyes  and  lips,  those 
plunging  feet,  they  speak  in  words  which  could  not  be  plainer 
if  God  traced  them  before  you  in  letters  of  fire !  What  else 
is  there  in  the  world  to  care  about?  The  father?  Why,  you 
could  kill  him  if  he  dreamed  of  waking  the  baby !  Just  as 
the  child  is  the  world  to  us,  so  do  we  stand  alone  in  the  world 
for  the  child.  The  sweet  consciousness  of  a  common  life  is 
ample  recompense  for  all  the  trouble  and  suffering — for  suf- 
fering there  is.  Heaven  save  you,  Louise,  from  ever  knowing 
the  maddening  agony  of  a  wound  which  gapes  afresh  with 
every  pressure  of  rosy  lips,  and  is  so  hard  to  heal — the  heaviest 
tax  perhaps  imposed  on  beauty.  For  know,  Louise,  and  be- 
ware !  it  visits  only  a  fair  and  delicate  skin. 

My  little  ape  has  in  five  months  developed  into  the  prettiest 
darling  that  ever  mother  bathed  in  tears  of  joy,  washed, 
brushed,  combed,  and  made  smart;  for  God  knows  what 
unwearied  care  we  lavish  upon  these  tender  blossoms !  So 
my  monkey  has  ceased  to  exist,  and  behold  in  his  stead  a  ~baby, 
as  my  English  nurse  says,  a  regular  pink-and-white  baby. 
He  cries  very  little  too  now,  for  he  is  conscious  of  the  love 
bestowed  on  him ;  indeed,  I  hardly  ever  leave  him,  and  I  strive 
to  wrap  him  round  in  the  atmosphere  of  my  love. 

Dear,  I  have  a  feeling  now  for  Louis  which  is  not  love, 
but  which  ought  to  be  the  crown  of  a  woman's  love  where  it 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  273 

exists.  Nay,  I  am  not  sure  whether  this  tender  fondness,  this 
unselfish  gratitude,,  is  not  superior  to  love.  From  all  that 
you  have  told  me  of  it,  dear  pet,  I  gather  that  love  has  some- 
thing terribly  earthly  about  it,  whilst  a  strain  of  holy  piety 
purifies  the  affection  a  happy  mother  feels  for  the  author  of 
her  far-reaching  and  enduring  joys.  A  mother's  happiness  is 
like  a  beacon,  lighting  up  the  future,  but  reflected  also  on  the 
past  in  the  guise  of  fond  memories. 

The  old  1'Estorade  and  his  son  have  moreover  redoubled 
their  devotion  to  me ;  I  am  like  a  new  person  to  them.  Every 
time  they  see  me  and  speak  to  me,  it  is  with  a  fresh  holiday 
joy,  which  touches  me  deeply.  The  grandfather  has,  I 
verily  believe,  turned  child  again ;  he  looks  at  me  admiringly, 
and  the  first  time  I  came  down  to  lunch  he  was  moved  to  tears 
to  see  me  eating  and  suckling  the  child.  The  moisture  in 
these  dry  old  eyes,  generally  expressive  only  of  avarice,  was  a 
wonderful  comfort  to  me.  I  felt  that  the  good  soul  entered 
into  my  joy. 

As  for  Louis,  he  would  shout  aloud  to  the  trees  and  stones 
of  the  highway  that  he  has  a  son;  and  he  spends  whole 
hours  watching  your  sleeping  godson.  He  does  not  know, 
he  says,  when  he  will  grow  used  to  it.  These  extravagant 
expressions  of  delight  show  me  how  great  must  have  been 
their  fears  beforehand.  Louis  has  confided  in  me  that  he 
had  believed  himself  condemned  to  be  childless.  Poor  fellow ! 
he  has  all  at  once  developed  very  much,  and  he  works  even 
harder  than  he  did.  The  father  in  him  has  quickened  his 
ambition. 

For  myself,  dear  soul,  I  grow  happier  and  happier  every 
moment.  Each  hour  creates  a  fresh  tie  between  the  mother 
and  her  infant.  The  very  nature  of  my  feelings  proves  to 
me  that  they  are  normal,  permanent,  and  indestructible; 
whereas  I  shrewdly  suspect  love,  for  instance,  of  being  in- 
termittent. Certainly  it  is  not  the  same  at  all  moments,  the 
flowers  which  it  weaves  into  the  web  of  life  are  not  all  of 
equal  brightness;  love,  in  short,  can  and  must  decline.  But 
a  mother's  love  has  no  ebb-tide  to  fear;  rather  it  grows  with 


274  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

the  growth  of  the  child's  needs,  and  strengthens  with  its 
strength.  Is  it  not  at  once  a  passion,  a  natural  craving,  a 
feeling,  a  duty,  a  necessity,  a  joy?  Yes,  darling,  here  is 
woman's  true  sphere.  Here  the  passion  for  self-sacrifice  can 
expend  itself,  and  no  jealousy  intrudes. 

Here,  too,  is  perhaps  the  single  point  on  which  society 
and  nature  are  at  one.  Society,  in  this  matter,  enforces  the 
dictates  of  nature,  strengthening  the  maternal  instinct  by 
adding  to  it  family  spirit  and  the  desire  of  perpetuating  a 
name,  a  race,  an  estate.  How  tenderly  must  not  a  woman 
cherish  the  child  who  has  been  the  first  to  open  up  to  her 
these  joys,  the  first  to  call  forth  the  energies  of  her  nature 
and  to  instruct  her  in  the  grand  art  of  motherhood !  The 
right  of  the  eldest,  which  in  the  earliest  times  formed  a  part 
of  the  natural  order  and  was  lost  in  the  origins  of  society, 
ought  never,  in  my  opinion,  to  have  been  questioned.  Ah! 
how  much  a  mother  learns  from  her  child !  The  constant 
protection  of  a  helpless  being  forces  us  to  so  strict  an  al- 
liance with  virtue,  that  a  woman  never  shows  to  full  advan- 
tage except  as  a  mother.  Then  alone  can  her  character  ex- 
pand in  the  fulfilment  of  all  life's  duties  and  the  enjoyment 
of  all  its  pleasures.  A  woman  who  is  not  a  mother  is  maimed 
and  incomplete.  Hasten,  then,  my  sweetest,  to  fulfil  your 
mission.  Your  present  happiness  will  then  be  multiplied  by 
the  wealth  of  my  delights. 

23«i. 

I  had  to  tear  myself  from  you  because  your  godson  was  cry- 
ing. I  can  hear  his  cry  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  But 
I  would  not  let  this  go  without  a  word  of  farewell.  I  have 
just  been  reading  over  what  I  have  said,  and  am  horrified 
to  see  how  vulgar  are  the  feelings  expressed !  What  I  feel, 
every  mother,  alas  !  since  the  beginning  must  have  felt,  I  sup- 
pose, in  the  same  way,  and  put  into  the  same  words.  You 
will  laugh  at  me,  as  we  do  at  the  nai've  father  who  dilates  on 
the  beauty  and  cleverness  of  his  (of  course)  quite  excep- 
tional offspring.  But  the  refrain  of  my  letter,  darling,  is 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  275 

this,  and  I  repeat  it:  I  am  as  happy  now  as  I  used  to  be 
miserable.  This  grange — and  is  it  not  going  to  be  an  estate, 
a  family  property? — has  become  my  land  of  promise.  The 
desert  is  past  and  over.  A  thousand  loves,  darling  pet.  Write 
to  me,  for  now  I  can  read  without  a  tear  the  tale  of  your 
happy  love.  Farewell. 


XXXII 

MME.   DE   MACUMER   TO   MME.    DE   I/ESTORADE 

March  1826 

Do  YOU  know,  dear,  that  it  is  more  than  three  months  since 
I  have  written  to  you  or  heard  from  you?  I  am  the  more 
guilty  of  the  two,  for  I  did  not  reply  to  your  last,  but  you 
don't  stand  on  punctilio  surely? 

Macumer  and  I  have  taken  your  silence  for  consent  as  re- 
gards the  baby-wreathed  luncheon  service,  and  the  little 
cherubs  are  starting  this  morning  for  Marseilles.  It  took 
six  months  to  carry  out  the  design.  And  so  when  Felipe 
asked  me  to  come  and  see  the  service  before  it  was  packed, 
I  suddenly  waked  up  to  the  fact  that  we  had  not  inter- 
changed a  word  since  the  letter  of  yours  which  gave  me  an 
insight  into  a  mother's  heart. 

My  sweet,  it  is  this  terrible  Paris — there's  my  excuse. 
What,  pray,  is  yours  ?  Oh !  what  a  whirlpool  is  society ! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  once  that  in  Paris  one  must  be  as  the 
Parisians?  Society  there  drives  out  all  sentiment;  it  lays 
an  embargo  on  your  time;  and  unless  you  are  very  careful, 
soon  eats  away  your  heart  altogether.  What  an  amazing  mas- 
terpiece is  the  character  of  Celimene  in  Moliere's  Le  Misan- 
thrope! She  is  the  society  woman,  not  only  of  Louis  XIV.'s 
time,  but  of  our  own,  and  of  all,  time. 

Where  should  I  be  but  for  my  breastplate — the  love  I  bear 
Felipe?  This  very  morning  I  told  him,  as  the  outcome  of 
these  reflections,  that  he  was  my  salvation.  If  my  evenings 


276  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

are  a  continuous  round  of  parties,  balls,  concerts,  and 
theatres,  at  night  my  heart  expands  again,  and  is  healed  of 
the  wounds  received  in  the  world  hy  the  delights  of  the  pas- 
sionate love  which  await  my  return. 

I  dine  at  home  only  when  we  have  friends,  so-called,  with 
us,  and  spend  the  afternoon  there  only  on  my  day,  for  I 
have  a  day  now — Wednesday — for  receiving.  I  have  entered 
the  lists  with  Mmes.  d'Espard  and  de  Maufrigneuse,  and 
with  the  old  Duchesse  de  Lenoncourt,  and  my  house  has  the  • 
reputation  of  being  a  very  lively  one.  I  allowed  myself  to 
become  the  fashion,  because  I  saw  how  much  pleasure  my 
success  gave  Felipe.  My  mornings  are  his ;  from  four  in  the 
afternoon  till  two  in  the  morning  I  belong  to  Paris.  Macu- 
mer  makes  an  admirable  host,  witty  and  dignified,  perfect  in 
courtesy,  and  with  an  air  of  real  distinction.  No  woman 
could  help  loving  such  a  husband  even  if  she  had  chosen  him 
without  consulting  her  heart. 

My  father  and  mother  have  left  for  Madrid.  Louis  XVIII. 
being  out  of  the  way,  the  Duchess  had  no  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining from  our  good-natured  Charles  X.  the  appointment  of 
her  fascinating  poet;  so  he  is  carried  off  in  the  capacity  of 
attache. 

My  brother,  the  Due  de  Rhetore,  deigns  to  recognize  me 
as  a  person  of  mark.  As  for  my  younger  brother,  the  Comte 
de  Chaulieu,  this  buckram  warrior  owes  me  everlasting  grati- 
tude. Before  my  father  left,  he  spent  my  fortune  in  acquir- 
ing for  the  Count  an  estate  of  forty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
entailed  on  the  title,  and  his  marriage  with  Mile,  de  Mort- 
sauf,  an  heiress  from  Touraine,  is  definitely  arranged.  The 
King,  in  order  to  preserve  the  name  and  titles  of  the  de 
Lenoncourt  and  de  Givry  families  from  extinction,,  is  to 
confer  these,  together  with  the  armorial  bearings,  by  patent 
on  my  brother.  Certainly  it  would  never  have  done  to  allow 
these  two  fine  names  and  their  splendid  motto,  Faciem  semper 
monstramus,  to  perish.  Mile,  de  Mortsauf,  who  is  grand- 
daughter and  sole  heiress  of  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt-Givry. 
it  is  said,  inherit  altogether  more  than  one  hundred 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  277 

thousand  livres  a  year.  The  only  stipulation  my  father  has 
made  is  that  the  de  Chaulieu  arms  should  appear  in  the 
centre  of  the  de  Lenoncourt  escutcheon.  Thus  my  brother 
will  be  Due  de  Lenoncourt.  The  young  de  Mortsauf,  to 
whom  everything  would  otherwise  go,  is  in  the  last  stage  of 
consumption;  his  death  is  looked  for  every  day.  The  mar- 
riage will  take  place  next  winter  when  the  family  are  out  of 
mourning.  I  am  told  that  I  shall  have  a  charming  sister-in- 
law  in  Mile,  de  Mortsauf. 

.  So  you  see  that  my  father's  reasoning  is  justified.  The 
outcome  of  it  all  has  won  me  many  compliments,  and  my 
marriage  is  explained  to  everybody's  satisfaction.  To  com- 
plete our  success,  the  Prince  de  Talleyrand,  out  of  affection 
for  my  grandmother,  is  showing  himself  a  warm  friend  to 
Macumer.  Society,  which  began  by  criticising  me,  has  now 
passed  to  cordial  admiration. 

In  short,  I  now  reign  a  queen  where,  barely  two  years  ago, 
I  was  an  insignificant  item.  Macumer  finds  himself  the  ob- 
ject of  universal  envy,  as  the  husband  of  "the  most  charming 
woman  in  Paris."  At  least  a  score  of  women,  as  you  know, 
are  always  in  that  proud  position.  Men  murmur  sweet  things 
in  my  ear,  or  content  themselves  with  greedy  glances.  This 
chorus  of  longing  and  admiration  is  so  soothing  to  one's 
vanity,  that  I  confess  I  begin  to  understand  the  uncon- 
scionable price  women  are  ready  to  pay  for  such  frail  and 
precarious  privileges.  A  triumph  of  this  kind  is  like  strong 
wine  to  vanity,  self-love,  and  all  the  self-regarding  feelings. 
To  pose  perpetually  as  a  divinity  is  a  draught  so  potent  in 
its  intoxicating  effects,  that  I  am  no  longer  surprised  to  see 
women  grow  selfish,  callous,  and  frivolous  in  the  heart  of 
this  adoration.  The  fumes  of  society  mount  to  the  head.  You 
lavish  the  wealth  of  your  soul  and  spirit,  the  treasures  of 
your  time,  the  noblest  efforts  of  your  will,  upon  a  crowd  of 
people  who  repay  you  in  smiles  and  jealousy.  The  false  coin 
of  their  pretty  speeches,  compliments,  and  flattery  is  the 
only  return  they  give  for  the  solid  gold  of  your  courage  and 
sacrifices,  and  all  the  thought  that  must  go  to  keep  up  with- 


278  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

out  flagging  the  standard  of  beauty,  dress,  sparkling  talk,  and 
general  affability.  You  are  perfectly  aware  how  much  it 
costs,  and  that  the  whole  thing  is  a  fraud,  but  you  cannot 
keep  out  of  the  vortex. 

Ah !  my  sweetheart,  how  one  craves  for  a  real  friend  !  How 
precious  to  me  are  the  love  and  devotion  of  Felipe,  and  how 
my  heart  goes  out  to  you !  Joyfully  indeed  are  we  prepar- 
ing for  our  move  to  Chantepleurs,  where  we  can  rest  from 
the  comedy  of  the  Eue  du  Bac  and  of  the  Paris  drawing- 
rooms.  Having  just  read  your  letter  again,  I  feel  that  I  can- 
not better  describe  this  demoniac  paradise  than  by  saying  that 
no  woman  of  fashion  in  Paris  can  possibly  be  a  good  mother. 

Good-bye,  then,  for  a  short  time,  dear  one.  We  shall  stay 
at  Chantepleurs  only  a  week  at  most,  and  shall  be  with  you 
about  May  10th.  So  we  are  actually  to  meet  again  after 
more  than  two  years !  What  changes  since  then !  Here  we 
are,  both  matrons,  both  in  our  promised  land — I  of  love,  you 
of  motherhood. 

If  I  have  not  written,  my  sweetest,  it  is  not  because  I  have 
forgotten  you.  And  what  of  the  monkey  godson  ?  Is  he  still 
pretty  and  a  credit  to  me?  He  must  be  more  than  nine 
months'  old  now.  I  should  dearly  like  to  be  present  when  -he 
makes  his  first  steps  upon  this  earth ;  but  Macumer  tells  me 
that  even  precocious  infants  hardly  walk  at  ten  months. 

We  shall  have  some  good  gossips  there,  and  "cut  pinafores," 
as  the  Blois  folk  say.  I  shall  see  whether  a  child,  as  the  say- 
ing goes,  spoils  the  pattern. 

P.  8. — If  you  deign  to  reply  from  your  maternal  heights, 
address  to  Chantepleurs.  I  am  just  off. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  279 

XXXIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTOEADE  TO  MME.  DE  MACUMER 

MY  CHILD, — If  ever  you  become  a  mother,  you  will  find  out 
that  it  is  impossible  to  write  letters  during  the  first  two 
months  of  your  nursing.  Mary,  my  English  nurse,  and  I 
are  both  quite  knocked  up.  It  is  true  I  had  not  told  you 
that  I  was  determined  to  do  everything  myself.  Before  the 
event  I  had  with  my  own  fingers  sewn  the  baby  clothes  and 
embroidered  and  edged  with  lace  the  little  caps.  I  am  a  slave, 
my  pet,  a  slave  day  and  night. 

To  begin  with,  Master  Armand-Louis  takes  his  meals  when 
it  pleases  him,  and  that  is  always;  then  he  has  often  to  be 
changed,  washed,  and  dressed.  His  mother  is  so  fond  of 
watching  him  asleep,  of  singing  songs  to  him,  of  walking 
him  about  in  her  arms  on  a  fine  day,  that  she  has  little  time 
left  to  attend  to  herself.  In  short,  what  society  has  been  to 
you,  my  child — our  child — has  been  to  me ! 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  full  and  rich  my  life  has  become, 
and  I  long  for  your  coming  that  you  may  see  for  yourself. 
The  only  thing  is,  I  am  afraid  he  will  soon  be  teething,  and 
that  you  will  find  a  peevish,  crying  baby.  So  far  he  has  not 
cried  much,  for  I  am  always  at  hand.  Babies  only  cry  when 
their  wants  are  not  understood,  and  I  am  constantly  on  the 
lookout  for  his.  Oh !  my  sweet,  my  heart  has  opened  up  so 
wide,  while  you  allow  yours  to  shrink  and  shrivel  at  the  bid- 
ding of  society !  I  look  for  your  coming  with  all  a  hermit's 
longing.  I  want  so  much  to  know  what  you  think  of  1'Es- 
torade,  just  as  you  no  doubt  are  curious  for  my  opinion  of 
Macumer. 

Write  to  me  from  your  last  resting-place.  The  gentlemen 
want  to  go  and  meet  our  distinguished  guests.  Come,  Queen 
of  Paris,  come  to  our  humble  grange,  where  love  at  least  will 
greet  you !  • 


280  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

XXXIV 

MME.  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  VICOMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

April  1826. 

THE  name  on  this  address  will  tell  you,  dear,  that  my  peti- 
tion has  been  granted.  Your  father-in-law  is  now  Comte  de 
1'Estorade.  I  would  not  leave  Paris  till  I  had  obtained  the 
gratification  of  your  wishes,  and  I  am  writing  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  who  has  come  to  tell  me  that 
the  patent  is  signed. 

Good-bye  for  a  short  time ! 


XXXV 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME 

MARSEILLES,  My. 

I  AM  ashamed  to  think  how  my  sudden  flight  will  have  taken 
you  by  surprise.  But  since  I  am  above  all  honest,  and  since 
I  love  you  not  one  bit  the  less,  I  shall  tell  you  the  truth  in 
four  words :  I  am  horribly  jealous ! 

Felipe's  eyes  were  too  often  on  you.  You  used  to  have 
little  talks  together  at  the  foot  of  your  rock,  which  were  a 
torture  to  me;  and  I  was  fast  becoming  irritable  and  unlike 
myself.  Your  truly  Spanish  beauty  could  not  fail  to  recall 
to  him  his  native  land,  and  along  with  it  Marie  Heredia,  and 
I  can  be  jealous  of  the  past  too.  Your  magnificent  black- 
hair,  your  lovely  dark  eyes,  your  brow,  where  the  peaceful 
joy  of  motherhood  stands  out  radiant  against  the  shadows 
which  tell  of  past  suffering,  the  freshness  of  your  southern 
skin,  far  fairer  than  that  of  a  blonde  like  me,  the  splendid 
lines  of  your  figure,  the  breasts,  on  which  my  godson  hangs, 
peeping  through  tbe  lace  like  some  luscioifs  fruit, — all  this 
stabbed  me  in  the  eyes  and  in  the  heart.  In  vain  did  I  stick 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  281 

cornflowers  in  my  curls,  in  vain  set  off  with  cherry-colored 
ribbons  the  tameness  of  my  pale  locks,  everything  looked 
washed  out  when  Renee  appeared — a  Eenee  so  unlike  the  one 
I  expected  to  find  in  your  oasis. 

Then  Felipe  made  too  much  of  the  child,  whom  I  found 
myself  beginning  to  hate.  Yes,  I  confess  it,  that  exuberance 
of  life  which  fills  your  house,  making  it  gay  with  shouts  and 
laughter — I  wanted  it  for  myself.  I  read  a  regret  in  Macu- 
mer's  eyes,  and,  unknown  to  him,  I  cried  over  it  two  whole 
nights.  I  was  miserable  in  your  house.  You  are  too  beauti- 
ful as  a  woman,  too  triumphant  as  a  mother,  for  me  to  endure 
your  company. 

Ah !  you  complained  of  your  lot.  Hypocrite !  What  would 
you  have?  L'Estorade  is  most  presentable;  he  talks  well; 
he  has  fine  eyes;  and  his  black  hair,  dashel  with  white,  is 
very  becoming;  his  southern  manners,  too,  have  something 
attractive  about  them.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  he  will, 
sooner  or  later,  be  elected  deputy  for  the  Bouches-du-Rhone ; 
in  the  Chamber  he  is  sure  to  come  to  the  front,  for  you  can 
always  count  on  me  to  promote  your  interests.  The  sufferings 
of  his  exile  have  given  him  that  calm  and  dignified  air  which 
goes  half-way,  in  my  opinion,  to  make  a  politician.  For  the 
whole  art  of  politics,  dear,  seems  to  me  to  consist  in  looking 
serious.  At  this  rate,  Macumer,  as  I  told  him,  ought  cer- 
tainly to  have  a  high  position  in  the  state. 

And  so,  having  completely  satisfied  myself  of  your  happi- 
ness, I  fly  off  contented  to  my  dear  Chantepleurs,  where 
Felipe  must  really  achieve  his  aspirations.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  not  to  receive  you  there  without  a  fine  baby  at  my 
breast  to  match  yours. 

Oh !  I  know  very  well  I  deserve  all  the  epithets  you  can 
hurl  at  me.  I  am  a  fool,  a  wretch,  an  idiot.  Alas !  that  is 
just  what  jealousy  means.  I  am  not  vexed  with  you,  but  I 
was  miserable,  and  you  will  forgive  me  for  escaping  from 
my  misery.  Two  days  more,  and  I  should  have  made  an  ex- 
hibition of  myself;  yes,  there  would  have  been  an  outbreak 
of  vulgarity. 


Z82  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

But  in.  spite  of  the  rage  gnawing  at  my  heart,  I  am  glad 
to  have  come,  glad  to  have  seen  you  in  the  pride  of  your 
beautiful  motherhood,  my  friend  still,  as  I  remain  yours  in 
all  the  absorption  of  my  love.  Why,  even  here  at  Marseilles, 
only  a  step  from  your  door,  I  begin  to  feel  proud  of  you  and 
of  the  splendid  mother  that  you  will  make. 

How  well  you  judged  your  vocation  !  You  seem  to  me  born 
for  the  part  of  mother  rather  than  of  lover,  exactly  as 
the  reverse  is  true  of  me.  There  are  women  capable  of 
neither,  hard-favored  or  silly  women.  A  good  mother  and 
a  passionately  loving  wife  have  this  in  common,  that  they 
both  need  intelligence  and  discretion  ever  at  hand,  and  an 
unfailing  command  of  every  womanly  art  and  grace.  Oh ! 
I  watched  you  well;  need  I  add,  sly  puss,  that  I  admired 
you  too?  Your  children  will  be  happy,  but  not  spoilt,  with 
your  tenderness  lapping  them  round  and  the  clear  light  of 
your  reason  playing  softly  on  them. 

Tell  Louis  the  truth  about  my  going  away,  but  find  some 
decent  excuse  for  your  father-in-law,  who  seems  to  act  as 
steward  for  the  establishment ;  and  be  careful  to  do  the  same 
for  your  family — a  true  Provengal  version  of  the  Harlowe 
family.  Felipe  does  not  yet  know  why  I  left,  and  he  will 
never  know.  If  he  asks,  I  shall  contrive  to  find  some  colorable 
pretext,  probably  that  you  were  jealous  of  me !  Forgive  me 
this  little  conventional  fib. 

Good-bye.  I  write  in  haste,  as  I  want  you  to  get  this  at 
lunch-time;  and  the  postilion,  who  has  undertaken  to  convey 
it  to  you,  is  here,  refreshing  himself  while  he  waits. 

Many  kisses  to  my  dear  little  godson.  Be  sure  you  come  to 
Chantepleurs  in  October.  I  shall  be  alone  there  all  the  time 
that  Macumer  is  away  in  Sardinia,  where  he  is  designing 
great  improvements  in  his  estate.  At  least  that  is  his  plan 
for  the  moment,  and  his  pet  vanity  consists  in  having  a  plan. 
Then  he  feels  that  he  has  a  will  of  his  own,  and  this  makes 
him  very  uneasy  when  he  unfolds  it  to  me.  Good-bye ! 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  283 

XXXVI 

THE  VICOMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMEB 

DEAR, — No  words  can  express  the  astonishment  of  all  our 
party  when,  at  luncheon,  we  were  told  that  you  had  both 
gone,  and,  above  all,  when  the  postilion  who  took  you  to  Mar- 
seilles handed  me  your  mad  letter.  Why,  naughty  child,  it 
was  your  happiness,  and  nothing  else,  that  made  the  theme 
of  those  talks  below  the  rock,  on  the  "Louise"  seat,  and  you 
had  not  the  faintest  justification  for  objecting  to  them.  In- 
grata!  My  sentence  on  you  is  that  you  return  here  at  my 
first  summons.  In  that  horrid  letter,  scribbled  on  the  inn 
paper,  you  did  not  tell  me  what  would  be  your  next  stopping 
place ;  so  I  must  address  this  to  Chantepleurs. 

Listen  to  me,  dear  sister  of  my  heart.  Know  first, 
that  my  mind  is  set  on  your  happiness.  Your  husband,  dear 
Louise,  commands  respect,  not  only  by  his  natural  gravity 
and  dignified  expression,  but  also  because  he  somehow  im- 
presses one  with  the  depth  of  his  mind  and  thoughts.  Add 
to  this  the  splendid  power  revealed  in  his  piquant  plainness 
and  in  the  fire  of  his  velvet  eyes;  and  you  will  understand 
that  it  was  some  little  time  before  I  could  meet  him  on  those 
easy  terms  which  are  almost  necessary  for  intimate  conversa- 
tion. Further,  this  man  has  been  Prime  Minister,  and  he 
idolizes  you;  whence  it  follows  that  he  must  be  a  profound 
dissembler.  To  fish  up  secrets,  therefore,  from  the  rocky  cav- 
erns of  this  diplomatic  soul  is  a  work  demanding  a  skilful 
hand  no  less  than  a  ready  brain.  Nevertheless,  I  succeeded 
at  last,  without  rousing  my  victim's  suspicions,  in  discovering 
many  things  of  which  you,  my  pet,  have  no  conception. 

You  know  that,  between  us  two,  my  part  is  rather  that 
of  reason,  yours  of  imagination :  I  personify  sober  duty,  you 
reckless  love.  It  has  pleased  fate  to  continue  in  our  lives 
this  contrast  in  character  wliich  was  imperceptible  to  all  ex- 
cept ourselves.  I  am  a  simple  country  viscountess,  very  am- 


284  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

bitious,  and  making  it  her  task  to  lead  her  family  on  the 
road  to  prosperity.  On  the  other  hand,  Macumer,  late  Due 
de  Soria,  has  a  name  in  the  world,  and  you,  a  duchess  by 
right,  reign  in  Paris,  where  reigning  is  no  easy  matter  even 
for  kings.  You  have  a  considerable  fortune,  which  will  be 
doubled  if  Macumer  carries  out  his  projects  for  developing 
his  great  estates  in  Sardinia,  the  resources  of  which  are  mat- 
ter of  common  talk  at  Marseilles.  Deny,  if  you  can,  that  if 
either  has  a  right  to  be  jealous,  it  is  not  you.  But,  thank 
God,  we  have  both  hearts  generous  enough  to  place  our  friend- 
ship beyond  reach  of  such  vulgar  pettiness. 

I  know  you,  dear;  I  know  that,  ere  now,  you  are  ashamed 
of  having  fled.  But  don't  suppose  that  your  flight  will  save 
you  from  a  single  word  of  the  discourse  which  I  had  prepared 
for  your  benefit  to-day  beneath  the  rock.  Eead  carefully 
then,  I  beg  of  you,  what  I  say,  for  it  concerns  you  even  more 
closely  than  Macumer,  though  he  also  enters  largely  into  my 
sermon. 

Firstly,  my  dear,  you  do  not  love  him.  Before  two  years 
are  over,  you  will  be  sick  of  adoration.  You  will  never  look 
on  Felipe  as  a  husband;  to  you  he  will  always  be  the  lover 
whom  you  can  play  with,  for  that  is  how  all  women  treat 
their  lovers.  You  do  not  look  up  to  him,  or  reverence,  or 
worship  him  as  a  woman  should  the  god  of  her  idolatry. 
You  see,  I  have  made  a  study  of  love,  my  sweet,  and  more 
than  once  have  I  taken  soundings  in  the  depth  of  my  own 
heart.  Now,  as  the  result  of  a  careful  diagnosis  of  your  case, 
I  can  say  with  confidence,  this  is  not  love. 

Yes,  dear  Queen  of  Paris,  you  cannot  escape  the  destiny  of 
all  queens.  The  day  will  come  when  you  long  to  be  treated 
as  a  light-o'-love,  to  be  mastered  and  swept  off  your  feet  by 
a  strong  man,  one  who  will  not  prostrate  himself  in  adora- 
tion before  you,  but  will  seize  your  arm  roughly  in  a  fit  of 
jealousy.  Macumer  loves  you  too  fondly  ever  to  be  able  either 
to  resist  you  or  find  fault  with  you.  A  single  glance  from 
you,  a  single  coaxing  word,  would  melt  his  sternest  resolution. 
Sooner  or  later,  you  will  learn  to  scorn  this  excessive  devo- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  285 

tion.  He  spoils  you,  alas !  just  as  I  used  to  spoil  you  at  the 
convent,  for  you  are  a  most  bewitching  woman,  and  there  is 
no  escaping  your  siren-like  charms. 

Worse  than  all,  you  are  candid,  and  it  often  happens  that 
our  happiness  depends  on  certain  social  hypocrisies  to  which 
you  will  never  stoop.  For  instance,  society  will  not  tolerate 
a  frank  display  of  the  wife's  power  over  her  husband.  The 
convention  is  that  a  man  must  no  more  show  himself  the 
lover  of  his  wife,  however  passionately  he  adores  her,  than 
a  married  woman  may  play  the  part  of  a  mistress.  This  rule 
you  both  disregard. 

In  the  first  place,  my  child,  from  what  you  have  yourself 
told  me,  it  is  clear  that  the  one  unpardonable  sin  in  society 
is  to  be  happy.  If  happiness  exists,  no  one  must  know  of  it. 
But  this  is  a  small  point.  What  seems  to  me  important  is 
that  the  perfect  equality  which  reigns  between  lovers  ought 
never  to  appear  in  the  case  of  husband  and  wife,  under  pain 
of  undermining  the  whole  fabric  of  society  and  entailing 
terrible  disasters.  If  it  is  painful  to  see  a  man  whom  nature 
has  made  a  nonentity,  how  much  worse  is  the  spectacle  of  a 
man  of  parts  brought  to  that  position  ?  Before-  very  long 
you  will  have  reduced  Macumer  to  the  mere  shadow  of  a  man. 
He  will  cease  to  have  a  will  and  character  of  his  own,  and 
become  mere  clay  in  your  hands.  You  will  have  so  com- 
pletely moulded  him  to  your  likeness,  that  your  household 
will  consist  of  only  one  person  instead  of  two,  and  that  one 
necessarily  imperfect.  You  will  regret  it  bitterly;  but  when 
at  last  you  deign  to  open  your  eyes,  the  evil  will  be  past  cure. 
Do  what  we  will,  women  do  not,  and  never  will,  possess  the 
qualities  which  are  characteristic  of  men,  and  these  qualities 
are  absolutely  indispensable  to  family  life.  Already  Macu- 
mer, blinded  though  he  is,  has  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  this 
future;  he  feels  himself  less  a  man  through  his  love.  His 
visit  to  Sardinia  is  a  proof  to  me  that  he  hopes  by  this 
temporary  separation  to  succeed  in  recovering  his  old  self. 

You  never  scruple  to  use  the  power  which  his  love  has 
placed  in  your  hand.  Your  position  of  vantage  may  be  read 


•>86  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

in  a  gesture,  a  look,  a  tone.  Oh !  darling,  how  truly  are  you 
the  mad  wanton  your  mother  called  you !  You  do  not  ques- 
tion, I  fancy,  that  I  am  greatly  Louis'  superior.  Well,  I 
would  ask  you,  have  you  ever  heard  me  contradict  him  ?  Am 
I  not  always,  in  the  presence  of  others,  the  wife  who  respects 
in  him  the  authority  of  the  family?  Hypocrisy!  you  will 
say.  Well,  listen  to  me.  It  is  true  that  if  I  want  to  give 
him  any  advice  which  I  think  may  be  of  use  to  him,  I 
wait  for  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  our  bedroom  to  explain 
what  I  think  and  wish;  but,  I  assure  you,  sweetheart,  that 
even  there  I  never  arrogate  to  myself  the  place  of  mentor. 
If  I  did  not  remain  in  private  the  same  submissive  wife 
that  I  appear  to  others,  he  would  lose  confidence  in  himself. 
Dear,  the  good  we  do  to  others  is  spoilt  unless  we  efface  our- 
selves so  completely  that  those  we  help  have  no  sense  of  in- 
feriority. There  is  a  wonderful  sweetness  in  these  hidden 
sacrifices,  and  what  a  triumph  for  me  in  your  unsuspect- 
ing praises  of  Louis!  There  can  be  no  doubt  also  that  the 
happiness,  the  comfort,  the  hope  of  the  last  two  years  have 
restored  what  misfortune,  hardship,  solitude,  and  despondency 
had  robbed  him  of. 

This,  then,  is  the  sum-total  of  my  observations.  At  the 
present  moment  you  love  in  Felipe,  not  your  husband,  but 
yourself.  There  is  truth  in  your  father's  words;  concealed 
by  the  spring-flowers  of  your  passion  lies  all  a  great  lady's 
selfishness.  Ah !  my  child,  how  I  must  love  you  to  speak 
such  bitter  truths ! 

Let  me  tell  you,  if  you  will  promise  never  to  breathe  a 
word  of  this  to  the  Baron,  the  end  of  our  talk.  We  had  been 
singing  your  praises  in  every  key,  for  he  soon  discovered 
that  I  loved  you  like  a  fondly-cherished  sister,  and  having 
insensibly  brought  him  to  a  confidential  mood,  I  ventured  to 
say: 

"Louise  has  never  yet  had  to  struggle  with  life.  She  has 
been  the  spoilt  child  of  fortune,  and  she  might  yet  have  to 
pay  for  this  were  you  not  there  to  act  the  part  of  father  as 
well  as  lover." 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  287 

"Ah!  but  is  it  possible?  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  abruptly, 
like  a  man  who  sees  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
But  the  exclamation  was  enough  for  me.  No  doubt,  if  you 
had  stayed,  he  would  have  spoken  more  freely  later. 

My  sweet,  think  of  the  day  awaiting  you  when  your 
husband's  strength  will  be  exhausted,  when  pleasure  will 
have  turned  to  satiety,  and  he  sees  himself,  I  will  not  say 
degraded,  but  shorn  of  his  proper  dignity  before  you.  The 
stings  of  conscience  will  then  waken  a  sort  of  remorse  in  him, 
all  the  more  painful  for  you,  because  you  will  feel  yourself 
responsible,  and  you  will  end  by  despising  the  man  whom 
you  have  not  accustomed  yourself  to  respect.  Remember, 
too,  that  scorn  with  a  woman  is  only  the  earliest  phase  of 
hatred.  You  are  too  noble  and  generous,  I  know,  ever  to  for- 
get the  sacrifices  which  Felipe  has  made  for  you;  but  what 
further  sacrifices  will  be  left  for  him  to  make  when  he  has, 
so  to  speak,  served  up  himself  at  the  first  banquet?  Woe  to 
the  man,  as  to  the  woman,  who  has  left  no  desire  unsatisfied ! 
All  is  over  then.  To  our  shame  or  our  glory — the  point  is  too 
nice  for  me  to  decide — it  is  of  love  alone  that  women  are  in- 
satiable. 

Oh !  Louise,  change  yet,  while  there  is  still  time.  If  you 
would  only  adopt  the  same  course  with  Macumer  that  I  have 
done  with  PEstorade,  you  might  rouse  the  sleeping  lion  in 
your  husband,  who  is  made  of  the  stuff  of  heroes.  One  might 
almost  say  that  you  grudge  him  his  greatness.  Would  you 
feel  no  pride  in  using  your  power  for  other  ends  than  your 
own  gratification,  in  awakening  the  genius  of  a  gifted  man, 
as  I  in  raising  to  a  higher  level  one  of  merely  common  parts  ? 

Had  you  remained  with  us,  I  should  still  have  written 
this  letter,  for  in  talking  you  might  have  cut  me  short  or 
got  the  better  of  me  with  your  sharp  tongue.  But  I  know 
that  you  will  read  this  thoughtfully  and  weigh  my  warn- 
ings. Dear  heart,  you  have  everything  in  life  to  make  you 
happy,  do  not  spoil  your  chances;  return  to  Paris,  I  entreat 
you,  as  soon  as  Macumer  comes  back.  The  engrossing  claims 
of  society,  of  which  I  complained,  are  necessary  for  both  of 


288  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

you;  otherwise  you  would  spend  your  life  in  mutual  self- 
absorption.  A  married  woman  ought  not  to  be  too  lavish 
of  herself.  The  mother  of  a  family,  who  never  gives  her 
household  an  opportunity  of  missing  her,  runs  the  risk  of 
palling  on  them.  If  I  have  several  children,  as  I  trust  for 
my  own  sake  I  may,  I  assure  you  I  shall  make  a  point 
of  reserving  to  myself  certain  hours  which  shall  be  held 
sacred;  even  to  one's  children  one's  presence  should  not  be  a 
matter  of  daily  bread. 

Farewell,  my  dear  jealous  soul !  Do  you  know  that  many 
women  would  be  highly  flattered  at  having  roused  this  pass- 
ing pang  in  you  ?  Alas !  I  can  only  mourn,  for  what  is  not 
mother  in  me  is  your  dear  friend.  A  thousand  loves.  Make 
what  excuse  you  will  for  leaving ;  if  you  are  not  sure  of  Macu- 
mer, I  am  of  Louis. 


XXXVII 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  VICOMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

Genoa. 

MY  BELOVED  BEAUTY, — I  was  bitten  with  the  fancy  to  see 
something  of  Italy,  and  I  am  delighted  at  having  carried  off 
Macumer,  whose  plans  in  regard  to  Sardinia  are  postponed. 

This  country  is  simply  ravishing.  The  churches — above 
all,  the  chapels — have  a  seductive,  bewitching  air,  which  must 
make  every  female  Protestant  yearn  after  Catholicism. 
Macumer  has  been  received  with  acclamation,  and  they  are 
all  delighted  to  have  made  an  Italian  of  so  distinguished  a 
man.  Felipe  could  have  the  Sardinian  embassy  at  Paris  if  I 
cared  about  it,  for  I  am  made  much  of  at  court. 

If  you  write,  address  your  letters  to  Florence.  I  have  not 
time  now  to  go  into  any  details,  but  I  will  tell  you  the 
story  of  our  travels  whenever  you  come  to  Paris.  We  only 
remain  here  a  week,  and  then  go  on  to  Florence,  taking  Leg- 
horn on  the  way.  We  shall  stay  a  month  in  Tuscany  and 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  289 

a  month  at  Naples,  so  as  to  reach  Home  in  November.  Thence 
we  return  home  by  Venice,  where  we  shall  spend  the  first 
fortnight  of  December,  and  arrive  in  Paris,  via  Milan  and 
Turin,  for  January. 

Our  journey  is  a  perfect  honeymoon;  the  sight  of  new 
places  gives  fresh  life  to  our  passion.  Macumer  did  not  know 
Italy  at  all,  and  we  have  begun  with  that  splendid  Cornice 
road,  which  might  be  the  work  of  fairy  architects. 

Good-bye,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  if  I  don't  write.  It  is 
impossible  to  get  a  minute  to  oneself  in  traveling;  my  whole 
time  is  taken  up  with  seeing,  admiring,  and  realizing  my  im- 
pressions. But  not  a  word  to  you  of  these  till  memory  has 
given  them  their  proper  atmosphere. 


XXXVIII 

THE  VICOMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER 

September. 

MY  DEAR, — There  is  lying  for  you  at  Chantepleurs  a  full 
reply  to  the  letter  you  wrote  me  from  Marseilles.  This 
honeymoon  journey,  so  far  from  diminishing  the  fears  I  there 
expressed,  makes  me  beg  of  you  to  get  my  letter  sent  on  from 
Nivernais. 

The  Government,  it  is  said,  are  resolved  on  dissolution. 
This  is  unlucky  for  the  Crown,  since  the  last  session  of  this 
loyal  Parliament  would  have  been  devoted  to  the  passing  of 
laws,  essential  to  the  consolidation  of  its  power;  and  it  is  not 
less  so  for  us,  as  Louis  will  not  be  forty  till  the  end  of  1827. 
Fortunately,  however,  my  father  has  agreed  to  stand,  and 
he  will  resign  his  seat  when  the  right  moment  arrives. 

Your  godson  has  found  out  how  to  walk  without  his  god- 
mother's help.  He  is  altogether  delicious,  and  begins  to  make 
the  prettiest  little  signs  to  me,  which  bring  home  to  one  that 
here  is  really  a  thinking  being,  not  a  mere  animal  or  sucking 


290  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

machine.  His  smiles  are  full  of  meaning.  I  have  been  so 
successful  in  my  profession  of  nurse  that  I  shall  wean  Ar- 
mand  in  December.  A  year  at  the  breast  is  quite  enough; 
children  who  are  suckled  longer  are  said  to  grow  stupid,  and 
I  am  all  for  popular  sayings. 

You  must  make  a  tremendous  sensation  in  Italy,  my  fair 
one  with  the  golden  locks.    A  thousand  loves. 


XXXIX 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  VICOMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

YOUR  atrocious  letter  has  reached  me  here,  the  steward  hav- 
ing forwarded  it  by  my  orders.  Oh!  Kenee  .  .  .  but  I 
will  spare  you  the  outburst  of  my  wounded  feelings,  and  sim- 
ply tell  you  the  effect  your  letter  produced. 

We  had  just  returned  from  a  delightful  reception  given 
in  our  honor  by  the  ambassador,  where  I  appeared  in  all  my 
glory,  and  Macumer  was  completely  carried  away  in  a  frenzy 
of  love  which  I  could  not  describe.  Then  I  read  him  your  hor- 
rible answer  to  my  letter,  and  I  read  it  sobbing/  at  the  risk  of 
making  a  fright  of  myself.  My  dear  Arab  fell  at  my  feet,  de- 
claring that  you  raved.  Then  he  carried  me  off  to  the  balcony 
of  the  palace  where  we  are  staying,  from  which  we  have  a 
view  over  part  of  the  city ;  there  he  spoke  to  me  words  worthy 
of  the  magnificent  moonlight  scene  which  lay  stretched  be- 
fore us.  We  both  speak  Italian  now,  and  his  love,  told  in 
that  voluptuous  tongue,  so  admirably  adapted  to  the  expres- 
sion of  passion,  sounded  in  my  ears  like  the  most  exquisite 
poetry.  He  swore  that,  even  were  you  right  in  your  predic- 
tions, he  would  not  exchange  for  a  lifetime  a  single  one  of 
our  blessed  nights  or  charming  mornings.  At  this  reckon- 
ing he  has  already  lived  a  thousand  years.  He  is  content  to 
have  me  for  his  mistress,  and  would  claim  no  other  title 
than  that  of  lover.  So  proud  and  pleased  is  he  to  see 
himself  every  day  the  chosen  of  my  heart,  that  were  Heaven 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  291 

to  offer  him  the  alternative  between  living  as  you  would  have 
us  do  for  another  thirty  years  with  five  children,  and  five 
years  spent  amid  the  dear  roses  of  our  love,  he  would  not 
hesitate.  He  would  take  my  love,  such  as  it  is,  and  death. 

While  he  was  whispering  this  in  my  ear,  his  arm  round 
me,  my  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  the  cries  of  a  bat, 
surprised  by  an  owl,  disturbed  us.  This  death-cry  struck  me 
with  such  terror  that  Felipe  carried  me  half-fainting  to  my 
bed.  But  don't  be  alarmed!  Though  this  augury  of  evil 
still  resounds  in  my  soul,  I  am  quite  myself  this  morning. 
As  soon  as  I  was  up,  I  went  to  Felipe,  and,  kneeling  be- 
fore him,  my  eyes  fixed  on  his,  his  hands  clasped  in  mine, 
I  said  to  him : — 

"My  love,  I  am  a  child,  and  Renee  may  be  right  after  all. 
It  may  be  only  your  love  that  I  love  in  you;  but  at  least 
I  can  assure  you  that  this  is  the  one  feeling  of  my  heart, 
and  that  I  love  you  as  it  is  given  me  to  love.  But  if  there 
be  aught  in  me,  in  my  lightest  thought  or  deed,  which  jars 
on  your  wishes  or  conception  of  me,  I  implore  you  to  tell  me, 
to  say  what  it  is.  It  will  be  a  joy  to  me  to  hear  you  and  to 
take  your  eyes  as  the  guiding-stars  of  my  life.  Renee  ha* 
frightened  me,  for  she  is  a  true  friend." 

Macumer  could  not  find  voice  to  reply,  tears  choked  him. 

I  can  thank  you  now,  Renee.  But  for  your  letter  I  should 
not  have  known  the  depths  of  love  in  my  noble,  kingly  Ma- 
cumer. Rome  is  the  city  of  love;  it  is  there  that  passion 
should  celebrate  its  feast,  with  art  and  religion  as  confed- 
erates. 

At  Venice  we  shall  find  the  Due  and  Duchesse  de  Soria. 
If  you  write,  address  now  to  Paris,  for  we  shall  leave  Rome 
in  three  days.  The  ambassador's  was  a  farewell  party. 

P.  8. — Dear,  silly  child,  your  letter  only  shows  that  you 
knew  nothing  of  love,  except  theoretically.  Learn  then  that 
love  is  a  quickening  force  which  may  produce  fruits  so  di- 
verse that  no  theory  can  embrace  or  co-ordinate  them.  A  word 
this  for  my  little  Professor  with  her  armor  of  stays. 


292  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


XL 

THE  COMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER 

January  1827. 

MY  father  has  been  elected  to  the  Chamber,  my  father-in- 
law  is  dead,  and  I  am  on  the  point  of  my  second  confinement ; 
these  are  the  chief  events  marking  the  end  of  the  year  for  us. 
I  mention  them  at  once,  lest  the  sight  of  the  black  seal  should 
frighten  you. 

My  dear,  your  letter  from  Eome  made  my  flesh  creep.  You 
are  nothing  but  a  pair  of  children.  Felipe  is  either  a  dis- 
sembling diplomat  or  else  his  love  for  you  is  the  love  a  man 
might  have  for  a  courtesan,  on  whom  he  squanders  his  all, 
knowing  all  the  time  that  she  is  false  to  him.  Enough  of 
this.  You  say  I  rave,  so  I  had  better  hold  my  tongue.  Only 
this  I  would  say,  from  the  comparison  of  our  two  very  differ- 
ent destinies  I  draw  this  harsh  moral — Love  not  if  you  would 
be  loved. 

My  dear,  when  Louis  was  elected  to  the  provincial  Coun- 
cil, he  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  That  is 
now  nearly  three  years  ago;  and  as  my  father — whom  you 
will  no  doubt  see  in  Paris  during  the  course  of  the  session 
— has  asked  the  rank  of  Officer  of  the  Legion  for  his  son- 
in-law,  I  want  to  know  if  you  will  do  me  the  kindness  to 
take  in  hand  the  bigwig,  whoever  he  may  be,  to  whom  this 
patronage  belongs,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  little  affair. 
But,  whatever  you  do,  don't  get  entangled  in  the  concerns 
of  my  honored  father.  The  Comte  de  Maucombe  is  fishing 
for  the  title  of  Marquis  for  himself;  but  keep  your  good 
services  for  me,  please.  When  Louis  is  a  deputy — next  winter ' 
that  is — we  shall  come  to  Paris,  and  then  we  will  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  get  some  Government  appointment  for 
him,  so  that  we  may  be  able  to  save  our  income  by  living  on 
his  salary.  My  father  sits  between  the  centre  and  the  right ; 
a  title  will  content  him.  Our  family  was  distinguished  even 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  293 

in  the  days  of  King  Rene,  and  Charles  X.  will  hardly  say  no 
to  a  Maucombe;  but  what  I  fear  is  that  my  father  may  take 
it  into  his  head  to  ask  some  favor  for  my  younger  brother. 
Now,  if  the  marquisate  is  dangled  out  of  his  reach,  he  will 
have  no  thoughts  to  spare  from  himself. 

January  15th. 

Ah !  Louise,  I  have  been  in  hell.  If  I  can  bear  to  tell  you 
of  my  anguish,  it  is  because  you  are  another  self;  even  so, 
I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  live  again  in 
thought  those  five  ghastly  days.  The  mere  word  "convul- 
sions" makes  my  very  heart  sick.  Five  days !  to  me  they  were 
five  centuries  of  torture.  A  mother  who  has  not  been  through 
this  martyrdom  does  not  know  what  suffering  is.  So  frenzied 
was  I  that  I  even  envied  you,  who  never  had  a  child ! 

The  evening  before  that  terrible  day  the  weather  was  close, 
almost  hot,  and  I  thought  my  little  Armand  was  affected  by 
it.  Generally  so  sweet  and  caressing,  he  was  peevish,  cried 
for  nothing,  wanted  to  play,  and  then  broke  his  toys.  Per- 
haps this  sort  of  fractiousness  is  the  usual  sign  of  approaching 
illness  with  children.  While  I  was  wondering  about  it,  I 
noticed  Armand's  cheeks  flush,  but  this  I  set  down  to  teeth- 
ing, for  he  is  cutting  four  large  teeth  at  once.  So  I  put  him 
to  bed  beside  me,  and  kept  constantly  waking  through  the 
night.  He  was  a  little  feverish,  but  not  enough  to  make  me 
uneasy,  my  mind  being  still  full  of  the  teething.  Towards 
morning  he  cried  "Mamma!"  and  asked  by  signs  for  some- 
thing to  drink;  but  the  cry  was  spasmodic,  and  there  were 
convulsive  twitchings  in  the  limbs,  which  turned  me  to  ice. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  to  fetch  him  a  drink.  Imagine  my  horror 
when,  on  my  handing  him  the  cup,  he  remained  motionless, 
only  repeating  "Mamma !"  in  that  strange,  unfamiliar  voice, 
which  was  indeed  by  this  time  hardly  a  voice  at  all.  I  took 
his  hand,  but  it  did  not  respond  to  my  pressure;  it  was  quite 
stiff.  I  put  the  cup  to  his  lips ;  the  poor  little  fellow  gulped 
down  three  or  four  mouthfuls  in  a  convulsive  manner  that 
was  terrible  to  see,  and  the  water  made  a  strange  sound  in 


294  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

his  throat.  He  clung  to  me  desperately,  and  I  saw  his  eyes 
roll,  as  though  some  hidden  force  within  were  pulling  at 
them,  till  only  the  whites  were  visible;  his  limbs  were  turn- 
ing rigid.  I  screamed  aloud,  and  Louis  came. 

"A  doctor !  quick !     ...     he  is  dying,"  I  cried. 

Louis  vanished,  and  my  poor  Armand  again  gasped, 
"Mamma !  Mamma !"  The  next  moment  he  lost  all  conscious- 
ness of  his  mother's  existence.  The  pretty  veins  on  his  fore- 
head swelled,  and  the  convulsions  began.  For  a  whole  hour 
before  the  doctors  came,  I  held  in  my  arms  that  merry  baby, 
all  lilies  and  roses,  the  blossom  of  my  life,  my  pride,  and  my 
joy,  lifeless  as  a  piece  of  wood ;  and  his  eyes !  I  cannot  think 
of  them  without  horror.  My  pretty  Armand  was  a  mere 
mummy — black,  shriveled,  misshapen. 

A  doctor,  two  doctors,  brought  from  Marseilles  by  Louis, 
hovered  about  like  birds  of  ill  omen;  it  made  me  shudder 
to  look  at  them.  One  spoke  of  brain  fever,  the  other  saw 
nothing  but  an  ordinary  case  of  convulsions  in  infancy.  Our 
own  country  doctor  seemed  to  me  to  have  the  most  sense,  for 
he  offered  no  opinion.  "It's  teething,"  said  the  second  doctor. 
— "Fever,"  said  the  first.  Finally  it  was  agreed  to  put 
leeches  on  his  neck  and  ice  on  his  head.  It  seemed  to  me 
like  death.  To  look  on,  to  see  a  corpse,  all  purple  or  black, 
and  not  a  cry,  not  a  movement  from  this  creature  but  now 
so  full  of  life  and  sound — it  was  horrible ! 

At  one  moment  I  lost  my  head,  and  gave  a  sort  of  hys- 
terical laugh,  as  I  saw  the  pretty  neck  which  I  used  to  devour 
with  kisses,  with  the  leeches  feeding  on  it,  and  his  darling 
head  in  a  cap  of  ice.  My  dear,  we  had  to  cut  those  lovely 
curls,  of  which  we  were  so  proud  and  with  which  you  used  to 
play,  in  order  to  make  room  for  the  ice.  The  convulsions 
returned  every  ten  minutes  with  the  regularity  of  labor  pains, 
and  then  the  poor  baby  writhed  and  twisted,  now  white,  now 
violet.  His  supple  limbs  clattered  like  wood  as  they  struck. 
And  this  unconscious  flesh  was  the  being  who  smiled  and 
prattled,  and  used  to  say  Mamma !  At  the  thought,  a  storm 
of  agony  swept  tumultuously  over  my  soul,  like  the  sea 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  295 

tossing  in  a  hurricane.  It  seemed  as  though  every  tie  which 
binds  a  child  to  its  mother's  heart  was  strained  to  rending. 
My  mother,  who  might  have  given  me  help,  advice,  or  com- 
fort, was  in  Paris.  Mothers,  it  is  my  belief,  know  more  than 
doctors  do  about  convulsions. 

After  four  days  and  nights  of  suspense  and  fear,  which 
almost  killed  me,  the  doctors  were  unanimous  in  advising 
the  application  of  a  horrid  ointment,  which  would  produce 
open  sores.  Sores  on  my  Armand !  who  only  five  days  before 
was  playing  about,  and  laughing,  and  trying  to  say  "God- 
mother!" I  would  not  have  it  done,  preferring  to  trust 
to  nature.  Louis,  who  believes  in  doctors,  scolded  me.  A 
man  remains  the  same  through  everything.  But  there  are 
moments  when  this  terrible  disease  takes  the  likeness  of 
death,  and  in  one  of  these  it  seemed  borne  in  upon  me  that 
this  hateful  remedy  was  the  salvation  of  Armand.  Louise, 
the  skin  was  so  dry,  so  rough  and  parched,  that  the  ointment 
would  not  act.  Then  I  broke  into  weeping,  and  my  tears 
fell  so  long  and  so  fast,  that  the  bedside  was  wet  through. 
And  the  doctors  were  at  dinner ! 

Seeing  myself  alone  with  the  child,  I  stripped  him  of  all 
medical  appliances,  and  seizing  him  like  a  mad  woman, 
pressed  him  to  my  bosom,  laying  my  forehead  against  his, 
and  beseeching  God  to  grant  him  the  life  which  I  was  striving 
to  pass  into  his  veins  from  mine.  For  some  minutes  I  held 
him  thus,  longing  to  die  with  him,  so  that  neither  life  nor 
death  might  part  us.  Dear,  I  felt  the  limbs  relaxing;  the 
writhings  ceased,  the  child  stirred,  and  the  ghastly,  corpse- 
like  tints  faded  away !  I  screamed,  just  as  I  did  when  he 
was  taken  ill ;  the  doctors  hurried  up,  and  I  pointed  to 
Armand. 

"He  is  saved !"  exclaimed  the  oldest  of  them. 

What  music  in  those  words !  The  gates  of  heaven  opened ! 
And,  in  fact,  two  hours  later  Armand  came  back  to  life ;  but 
I  was  utterly  crushed,  and  it  was  only  the  healing  power  of 
joy  which  saved  me  from  a  serious  illness.  My  God !  by 
what  tortures  do  you  bind  a  mother  to  her  child !  To  fasten 


296  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

him  to  our  heart,  need  the  nails  be  driven  into  the  very 
quick?  Was  I  not  mother  enough  before?  I,  who  wept 
tears  of  joy  over  his  broken  syllables  and  tottering  steps, 
who  spent  hours  together  planning  how  best  to  perform  my 
duty,  and  fit  myself  for  the  sweet  post  of  mother  ?  Why  these 
horrors,  these  ghastly  scenes,  for  a  mother  who  already  idol- 
ized her  child  ? 

As  I  write,  our  little  Armand  is  playing,  shouting,  laugh- 
ing. What  can  be  the  cause  of  this  terrible  disease  with  chil- 
dren? Vainly  do  I  try  to  puzzle  it  out,  remembering  that 
I  am  again  with  child.  Is  it  teething?  Is  it  some  peculiar 
process  in  the  brain?  Is  there  something  wrong  with  the 
nervous  system  of  children  who  are  subject  to  convulsions? 
All  these  thoughts  disquiet  me,  in  view  alike  of  the  present 
and  the  future.  Our  country  doctor  holds  to  the  theory  of 
nervous  trouble  produced  by  teething.  I  would  give  every 
tooth  in  my  head  to  see  little  Armand's  all  through.  The 
sight  of  one  of  those  little  white  pearls  peeping  out  of  the 
swollen  gum  brings  a  cold  sweat  over  me  now.  The  heroism 
with  which  the  little  angel  bore  his  sufferings  proves  to  me 
that  he  will  be  his  mother's  son.  A  look  from  him  goes  to 
my  very  heart. 

Medical  science  can  give  no  satisfactory  explanation  as 
to  the  origin  of  this  sort  of  tetanus,  which  passes  off  as 
rapidly  as  it  comes  on,  and  can  apparently  be  neither  guarded 
against  nor  cured.  One  thing  alone,  as  I  said  before,  is  cer- 
tain, that  it  is  hell  for  a  mother  to  see  her  child  in  convul- 
sions. How  passionately  do  I  clasp  him  to  my  heart !  I 
could  walk  for  ever  with  him  in  my  arms ! 

To  have  suffered  all  this  only  six  weeks  before  my  confine- 
ment made  it  much  worse;  I  feared  for  the  coming  child. 
Farewell,  my  dear  beloved.  Don't  wish  for  a  child — there 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  my  letter ! 


LETTEKS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  297 

XLI 

THE    BARRONNE    DE    MACUMER    TO    THE    YICOMTESSE 

DE  L'ESTORADE 

Paris. 

POOR  SWEET, — Macumer  and  I  forgave  you  all  your  naughti- 
ness when  we  heard  of  your  terrible  trouble.  I  thrilled  with 
pain  as  I  read  the  details  of  that  double  agony,  and  there 
seem  compensations  now  in  being  childless. 

I  am  writing  at  once  to  tell  you  that  Louis  has  been  pro- 
moted. He  can  now  wear  the  ribbon  of  an  officer  of  the 
Legion.  You  are  a  lucky  woman,  Kenee,  and  you  will  proba- 
bly have  a  little  girl,  since  that  used  to  be  your  wish ! 

The  marriage  of  my  brother  with  Mile,  de  Mortsauf  was 
celebrated  on  our  return.  Our  gracious  King,  who  really 
is  extraordinarily  kind,  has  given  my  brother  the  reversion 
of  the  post  of  first  gentleman  of  the  chamber,  which  his 
father-in-law  now  fills,  on  the  one  condition  that  the 
scutcheon  of  the  Mortsaufs  should  be  placed  side  by  side  with 
that  of  the  Lenoncourts. 

"The  office  ought  to  go  with  the  title,"  he  said  to  the  Due 
de  Lenoncourt-Givry. 

My  father  is  justified  a  hundred-fold.  Without  the  help 
of  my  fortune  nothing  of  all  this  could  have  taken  place. 
My  father  and  mother  came  from  Madrid  for  the  wedding, 
and  return  there,  after  the  reception  which  I  give  to-morrow 
for  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

The  carnival  will  be  a  very  gay  one.  The  Due  and  Duchesse 
de  Soria  are  in  Paris,  and  their  presence  makes  me  a  little 
uneasy.  Marie  Heredia  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  Europe,  and  I  don't  like  the  way  Felipe  looks  at 
her.  Therefore  I  am  doubly  lavish  of  sweetness  and  caresses. 
Every  look  and  gesture  speak  the  words  which  I  am  careful 
my  lips  should  not  utter,  "She  could  not  love  like  this !" 
Heaven  knows  how  lovely  and  fascinating  I  am !  Yesterday 
Mme.  de  Maufrigneuse  said  to  me: 


298  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

"Dear  child,  who  can  compete  with  you?" 

Then  I  keep  Felipe  so  well  amused,  that  his  sister-in-law 
must  seem  as  lively  as  a  Spanish  cow  in  comparison.  I  am 
the  less  sorry  that  a  little  Abencerrage  is  not  on  his  way, 
because  the  Duchess  will  no  doubt  stay  in  Paris  over  her 
confinement,  and  she  won't  be  a  beauty  any  longer.  If  fhe 
baby  is  a  boy,  it  will  be  called  Felipe,  in  honor  of  the  exile. 
An  unkind  chance  has  decreed  that  I  shall,  a  second  time, 
serve  as  godmother. 

Good-bye,  dear.  I  shall  go  to  Chantepleurs  early  this  year, 
for  our  Italian  tour  was  shockingly  expensive.  I  shall  leave 
about  the  end  of  March,  and  retire  to  economize  in  Nivernais. 
Besides,  I  am  tired  of  Paris.  Felipe  sighs,  as  I  do,  after  the 
beautiful  quiet  of  the  park,  our  cool  meadows,  and  our  Loire, 
with  its  sparkling  sands,  peerless  among  rivers.  Chantepleurs 
will  seem  delightful  to  me  after  the  pomps  and  vanities  of 
Italy ;  for,  after  all,  splendor  becomes  wearisome,  and  a  lover's 
glance  has  more  beauty  than  a  capo  d' opera  or  a  bel  qtiadro! 

We  shall  expect  you  there.  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  be 
jealous  again.  You  are  free  to  take  what  soundings  you 
please  in  Macumer's  heart,  and  fish  up  all  the  interjections 
and  doubts  you  can.  I  am  supremely  indifferent.  Since  that 
day  at  Rome  Felipe's  love  for  me  has  grown.  He  told  me 
yesterday  (he  is  looking  over  my  shoulder  now)  that  his 
sister-in-law,  the  Princess  Heredia,  his  destined  bride  of  old, 
the  dream  of  his  youth,  had  no  brains.  Oh !  my  dear,  I  am 
worse  than  a  ballet-dancer !  If  you  knew  what  joy  that  slight- 
ing remark  gave  me !  I  have  pointed  out  to  Felipe  that  she 
does  not  speak  French  correctly.  She  says  esemple  for  ex- 
emple,  sain  for  cinq,  cheu  for  je.  She  is  beautiful  of  course, 
but  quite  without  charm  or  the  slightest  scintilla  of  wit. 
When  a  compliment  is  paid  her,  she  looks  at  you  as  though 
she  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  such  a  strange  thing.  Felipe, 
being  what  he  is,  could  not  have  lived  two  months  with  Marie 
after  his  marriage.  Don  Fernand,  the  Due  de  Soria,  suits 
her  very  well.  He  has  generous  instincts,  but  it's  easy  to  see 
he  has  been  a  spoilt  child.  I  am  tempted  to  be  naughty  and 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  299 

make  pou  laugh;  but  I  won't  draw  the  long  bow.     Ever  so 
much  love,  darling. 


XLII 

RENEE  TO   LOUISE 

MY  little  girl  is  two  months  old.  She  is  called  Jeanne- 
Athenai's,  and  has  for  godmother  and  godfather  my  mother, 
and  an  old  grand-uncle  of  Louis'. 

As  soon  as  I  possibly  can,  I  shall  start  for  my  visit  to 
Chantepleurs,  since  you  are  not  afraid  of  a  nursing  mother. 
Your  godson  can  say  your  name  now;  he  calls  it  Matoumer, 
for  he  can't  say  c  properly.  You  will  be  quite  delighted  with 
him.  He  has  got  all  his  teeth,  and  eats  meat  now  like  a 
big  boy;  he  is  all  over  the  place,  trotting  about  like  a  little 
mouse;  but  I  watch  him  all  the  time  with  anxious  eyes,  and 
it  makes  me  miserable  that  I  cannot  keep  him  by  me  when 
I  am  laid  up.  The  time  is  more  than  usually  long  with  me, 
as  the  doctors  consider  some  special  precautions  necessary. 
Alas!  my  child,  habit  does  not  inure  one  to  child-bearing. 
There  are  the  same  old  discomforts  and  misgivings.  However 
(don't  show  this  to  Felipe),  this  little  girl  takes  after  me, 
and  she  may  yet  cut  out  your  Armand. 

My  father  thought  Felipe  looking  very  thin,  and  my  dear 
pet  also  not  quite  so  blooming.  Yet  the  Due  and  Duchesse 
de  Soria  have  gone ;  not  a  loophole  for  jealousy  is  left !  Is 
there  any  trouble  which  you  are  hiding  from  me  ?  Your  letter 
is  neither  so  long  nor  so  full  of  loving  thoughts  as  usual.  Is 
this  only  a  whim  of  my  dear  whimsical  friend? 

I  am  running  on  too  long.  My  nurse  is  angry  with  me 
for  writing,  and  Mile.  Athenais  de  FEstorade  wants  her 
dinner.  Farewell,  then ;  write  me  some  nice  long  letters. 


3W  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

XLIII 

MME.   DE  MACUMER  TO  THE   COMTESSE  DE   L'ESTORADE 

FOR  the  first  time  in  my  life,  my  dear  Renee,  I  have  been 
alone  and  crying.  I  was  sitting  under  a  willow,  on  a  wooden 
bench  by  the  side  of  the  long  Chantepleurs  marsh.  The  view 
there  is  charming,  but  it  needs  some  merry  children  to  com- 
plete it,  and  I  wait  for  you.  I  have  been  married  nearly 
three  years,  and  no  child !  The  thought  of  your  quiver  full 
drove  me  to  explore  my  heart. 

And  this  is  what  I  find  there.  "Oh !  if  I  had  to  suffer  a 
hundred-fold  what  Renee  suffered  when  my  godson  was  born ; 
if  I  had  to  see  my  child  in  convulsions,  even  so  would  to 
God  that  I  might  have  a  cherub  of  my  own,  like  your  Athe- 
nai's !"  I  can  see  her  from  here  in  my  mind's  eye,  and  I  know 
she  is  beautiful  as  the  day,  for  you  tell  me  nothing  about  her 
— that  is  just  like  my  Renee!  I  believe  you  divine  my 
trouble. 

Each  time  my  hopes  are  disappointed,.  I  fall  a  prey  for 
some  days  to  the  blackest  melancholy.  Then  I  compose  sad 
elegies.  When  shall  I  embroider  little  caps  and  sew  lace 
edgings  to  encircle  a  tiny  head?  When  choose  the  cambric 
for  the  baby-clothes?  Shall  I  never  hear  baby  lips  shout 
"Mamma,"  and  have  my  dress  pulled  by  a  teasing  despot 
whom  my  heart  adores?  Are  there  to  be  no  wheelmarks  of 
a  little  carriage  on  the  gravel,  no  broken  toys  littered  about 
the  courtyard  ?  Shall  I  never  visit  the  toy-shops,  as  mothers 
do,  to  buy  swords,  and  dolls,  and  baby-houses  ?  And  will  it 
never  be  mine  to  watch  the  unfolding  of  a  precious  life — 
another  Felipe,  only  more  dear?  I  would  have  a  son,  if  only 
to  learn  how  a  lover  can  be  more  to  one  in  his  second  self. 

My  park  and  castle  are  cold  and  desolate  to  me.  A  childless 
woman  is  a  monstrosity  of  nature;  we  exist  only  to  be 
mothers.  Oh!  my  sage  in  woman's  livery,  how  well  you 
have  conned  the  book  of  life !  Everywhere,  too,  barrenness 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  301 

is  a  dismal  thing.  My  life  is  a  little  too  much  like  one  of 
Gessner's  or  Florian's  sheepfolds,  which  Eivarol  longed  to  see 
invaded  by  a  wolf.  I  too  have  it  in  me  to  make  sacrifices ! 
There  are  forces  in  me,  I  feel,  which  Felipe  has  no  use  for; 
and  if  I  am  not  to  be  a  mother,  I  must  be  allowed  to  indulge 
myself  in  some  romantic  sorrow. 

I  have  just  made  this  remark  to  my  belated  Moor,  and  it 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  cannot  stand  any  joking  on 
his  love,  so  I  let  him  off  easily,  and  only  called  him  a  paladin 
of  folly. 

At  times  I  am  seized  with  a  desire  to  go  on  pilgrimage,  to 
bear  my  longings  to  the  shrine  of  some  madonna  or  to  a 
watering-place.  Next  winter  I  shall  take  medical  advice.  I 
am  too  much  enraged  with  myself  to  write  more.  Good-bye. 


XLIY 

THE   SAME    TO    THE    SAME 

Parts,  1829. 

A  WHOLE  year  passed,  my  dear,  without  a  letter !  What  does 
this  mean?  I  am  a  little  hurt.  Do  you  suppose  that  your 
Louis,  who  comes  to  see  me  almost  every  alternate  day,  makes 
up  for  you  ?  It  is  not  enough  to  know  that  you  are  well  and 
that  everything  prospers  with  you;  for  I  love  you,  Renee, 
and  I  want  to  know  what  you  are  feeling  and  thinking  of, 
just  as  I  say  everything  to  you,  at  the  risk  of  being  scolded, 
or  censured,  or  misunderstood.  Your  silence  and  seclusion 
in  the  country,  at  a  time  when  you  might  be  in  Paris  enjoying 
all  the  Parliamentary  honors  of  the  Comte  de  FEstorade, 
cause  me  serious  anxiety.  You  know  that  your  husband's 
"gift  of  the  gab"  and  unsparing  zeal  have  won  for  him  quite  a 
position  here,  and  he  will  doubtless  receive  some  very  good 
post  when  the  session  is  over.  Pray,  do  you  spend  your  life 
writing  him  letters  of  advice  ?  Numa  was  not  so  far  removed 
from  his  Egeria. 


302  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Why  did  you  not  take  this  opportunity  of  seeing  Paris? 
I  might  have  enjoyed  your  company  for  four  months.  Louis 
told  me  yesterday  that  you  were  coming  to  fetch  him,  and 
would  have  your  third  confinement  in  Paris — you  terrible 
mother  Gigogne !  After  bombarding  Louis  with  queries,  ex- 
clamations, and  regrets,  I  at  last  defeated  his  strategy  so  far 
as  to  discover  that  his  grand-uncle,  the  godfather  of  Athenais, 
is  very  ill.  Now  I  believe  that  you,  like  a  careful  mother, 
would  be  quite  equal  to  angling  with  the  member's  speeches 
and  fame  for  a  fat  legacy  from  your  husband's  last  remaining 
relative  on  the  mother's  side.  Keep  your  mind  easy,  my 
Renee — we  are  all  at  work  for  Louis,  Lenoncourts,  Chaulieus, 
and  the  whole  band  of  Mme.  de  Macumer's  followers.  Mar- 
tignac  will  probably  put  him  into  the  audit  department.  But 
if  you  won't  tell  me  why  you  bury  yourself  in  the  country, 
I  shall  be  cross. 

Tell  me,  are  you  afraid  that  the  political  wisdom  of  the 
house  of  1'Estorade  should  seem  to  centre  in  you?  Or  is  it 
the  uncle's  legacy?  Perhaps  you  were  afraid  you  would  be 
less  to  your  children  in  Paris  ?  Ah !  what  I  would  give  to 
know  whether,  after  all,  you  were  not  simply  too  vain  to 
show  yourself  in  Paris  for  the  first  time  in  your  present  con- 
dition !  Vain  thing !  Farewell. 


XLV 

TO  LOUISE 


You  complain  of  my  silence  ;  have  you  forgotten,  then,  those 
two  \ittle  brown  heads,  at  once  my  subjects  and  my  tyrants? 
And  as  to  staying  at  home,  you  have  yourself  hit  upon  several 
of  my  reasons.  Apart  from  the  condition  of  our  dear  uncle, 
I  didn't  want  to  drag  with  me  to  Paris  a  boy  of  four  and  a 
little  girl  who  will  soon  be  three,  when  I  am  again  expecting 
my  confinement.  I  had  no  intention  of  troubling  you  and 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  303 

upsetting  your  household  with  such  a  party.  I  did  not  care 
to  appear,  looking  my  worst,  in  the  brilliant  circle  over  which 
you  preside,  and  I  detest  life  in  hotels  and  lodgings. 

When  I  come  to  spend  the  session  in  Paris,  it  will  be  in  my 
own  house.  Louis'  uncle,  when  he  heard  of  the  rank  his 
grand-nephew  had  received,,  made  me  a  present  of  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  (the  half  of  his  savings)  with  which 
to  buy  a  house  in  Paris,  and  I  have  charged  Louis  to  find  one 
in  your  neighborhood.  My  mother  has  given  me  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  for  the  furnishing,  and  I  shall  do  my  best  not 
to  disgrace  the  dear  sister  of  my  election — no  pun  intended. 

I  am  grateful  to  you  for  having  already  done  so  much  at 
Court  for  Louis.  But  though  M.  de  Bourmont  and  M.  de 
Polignac  have  paid  him  the  compliment  of  asking  him  to 
join  their  ministry,  I  do  not  wish  so  conspicuous  a  place  for 
him.  It  would  commit  him  too  much ;  and  I  prefer  the  Audit 
Office  because  it  is  permanent.  Our  affairs  here  are  in  very 
good  hands ;  so  you  need  not  fear ;  as  soon  as  the  steward  has 
mastered  the  details,  I  will  come  and  support  Louis. 

As  for  writing  long  letters  nowadays,  how  can  I?  This 
one,  in  which  I  want  to  describe  to  you  the  daily  routine  of 
my  life,  will  be  a  week  on  the  stocks.  Who  can  tell  but  Ar- 
mand  may  lay  hold  of  it  to  make  caps  for  his  regiments 
drawn  up  on  my  carpet,  or  vessels  for  the  fleets  which  sail  his 
bath!  A  single  day  will  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  rest,  for 
they  are  all  exactly  alike,  and  their  characteristics  reduce 
themselves  to  two — either  the  children  are  well,  or  they  are 
not.  For  me,  in  this  solitary  grange,  it  is  no  exaggeration 
to  say  that  hours  become  minutes,  or  minutes  hours,  accord- 
ing to  the  children's  health. 

If  I  have  some  delightful  hours,  it  is  when  they  are  asleep 
and  I  am  no  longer  needed  to  rock  the  one  or  soothe  the  other 
with  stories.  When  I  have  them  sleeping  by  my  side,  I  say 
to  myself,  "Nothing  can  go  wrong  now."  The  fact  is,  my 
sweet,  every  mother  spends  her  time,  so  soon  as  her  children 
are  out  of  her  sight,  in  imagining  dangers  for  them.  Perhaps 
it  is  Araiand  seizing  the  razors  to  play  with,  or  his  coat  taking 


304  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

fire,  or  a  snake  biting  him,  or  he  might  tumble  in  running 
and  start  an  abscess  on  his  head,  or  he  might  drown  himself 
in  a  pond.  A  mother's  life,  you  see,  is  one  long  succession 
of  dramas,  now  soft  and  tender,  now  terrible.  Not  an  hour 
but  has  its  joys  and  fears. 

But  at  night,  in  my  room,  comes  the  hour  for  waking 
dreams,  when  I  plan  out  their  future,  which  shines  brightly 
in  the  smile  of  the  guardian  angel,  watching  over  their  beds. 
Sometimes  Armand  calls  me  in  his  sleep ;  I  kiss  his  forehead 
(without  rousing  him),  then  his  sister's  feet,  and  watch  them 
both  lying  in  their  beauty.  These  are  my  merry-makings ! 
Yesterday,  it  must  have  been  our  guardian  angel  who  roused 
me  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  summoned  me  in  fear  to 
Athenai's'  cradle.  Her  head  was  too  low,  and  I  found  Armand 
all  uncovered,  his  feet  purple  with  cold. 

"Darling  mother!"  he  cried,  rousing  up  and  flinging  his 
arms  round  me. 

There,  dear,  is  one  of  our  night  scenes  for  you. 

How  important  it  is  for  a  mother  to  have  her  children  by 
her  side  at  night !  It  is  not  for  a  nurse,  however  careful  she 
may  be,  to  take  them  up,  comfort  them,  and  hush  them  to 
sleep  again,  when  some  horrid  nightmare  has  disturbed  them. 
For  they  have  their  dreams,  and  the  task  of  explaining  away 
one  of  these  dread  visions  of  the  night  is  the  more  arduous 
because  the  child  is  scared,  stupid,  and  only  half  awake.  It 
is  a  mere  interlude  in  the  unconsciousness  of  slumber.  In 
this  way  I  have  come  to  sleep  so  lightly,  that  I  can  see  my 
little  pair  and  see  them  stirring,  through  the  veil  of  my 
eyelids.  A  sigh  or  a  rustle  wakens  me.  For  me,  the  demon 
of  convulsions  is  ever  crouching  by  their  beds. 

So  much  for  the  nights;  with  the  first  twitter  of  the  birds 
my  babies  begin  to  stir.  Through  the  mists  of  dispersing 
sleep,  their  chatter  blends  with  the  warblings  that  fill  the 
morning  air,  or  with  the  swallows'  noisy  debates — little  cries 
of  joy  or  woe,  whi?h  make  their  way  to  my  heart  rather  than 
my  ears.  While  Nais  struggles  to  get  at  me,  making  the 
passage  from  her  cradle  to  my  bed  on  all  fours  or  with  stag- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  305 

gering  steps,  Armand  climbs  up  with  the  agility  of  a  monkey, 
and  has  his  arms  round  me.  Then  the  merry  couple  turn  my 
bed  into  a  playground,  where  mother  lies  at  their  mercy.  The 
baby-girl  pulls  my  hair,  and  would  take  to.  sucking  again, 
while  Armand  stands  guard  over  my  breast,  as  though  de- 
fending his  property.  Their  funny  ways,  their  peals  of 
laughter,  are  too  much  for  me,  and  put  sleep  fairly  to  flight. 

Then  we  play  the  ogress  game;  mother  ogress  eats  up  the 
white,  soft  flesh  with  hugs,  and  rains  kisses  on  those  rosy 
shoulders  and  eyes  brimming  over  with  saucy  mischief;  we 
have  little  jealous  tiffs  too,  so  pretty  to  see.  It  has  happened 
to  me,  dear,  to  take  up  my  stockings  at  eight  o'clock  and  be 
still  bare-footed  at  nine ! 

Then  comes  the  getting  up.  The  operation  of  dressing 
begins.  I  slip  on  my  dressing-gown,  turn  up  my  sleeves,  and 
don  the  mackintosh  apron;  with  Mary's  assistance,  I  wash 
and  scrub  my  two  little  blossoms.  I  am  sole  arbiter  of  the  tem- 
perature of  the  bath,  for  a  good  half  of  children's  crying  and 
whimpering  comes  from  mistakes  here.  The  moment  has 
arrived  for  paper  fleets  and  glass  ducks,  since  the  only  way 
to  get  children  thoroughly  washed  is  to  keep  them  well 
amused.  If  you  knew  the  diversions  that  have  to  be  invented 
before  these  despotic  sovereigns  will  permit  a  soft  sponge  to 
be  passed  over  every  nook  and  cranny,  you  would  be  awestruck 
at  the  amount  of  ingenuity  and  intelligence  demanded  by  the 
maternal  profession  when  one  takes  it  seriously.  Prayers, 
scoldings,  promises,  are  alike  in  requisition;  above  all,  the 
jugglery  must  be  so  dexterous  that  it  defies  detection.  The 
case  would  be  desperate  had  not  Providence  to  the  cunning 
of  the  child  matched  that  of  the  mother.  A  child  is  a  diplo- 
matist, only  to  be  mastered,  like  the  diplomatists  of  the  great 
world,  through  his  passions !  Happily,  it  takes  little  to  make 
these  cherubs  laugh ;  the  fall  of  a  brush,  a  piece  of  soap  slip- 
ping from  the  hand,  and  what  merry  shouts !  And  if  our  tri- 
umphs are  dearly  bought,  still  triumphs  they  are,  though 
hidden  from  mortal  eye.  Even  the  father  knows  nothing  of 
it  all.  None  but  God  and  His  angels — and  perhaps  you — can 


306  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

fathom  the  glances  of  satisfaction  which  Mary  and  I  exchange 
when  the  little  creatures'  toilet  is  at  last  concluded,  and  they 
stand,  spotless  and  shining,  amid  a  chaos  of  soap,  sponges 
combs,  basins,  blotting-paper,  flannel,  and  all  the  nameless 
litter  of  a  true  English  "nursery." 

For  I  am  so  far  a  convert  as  to  admit  that  English  women 
have  a  talent  for  this  department.  True,  they  look  upon  the 
child  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  material  well-being; 
but  where  this  is  concerned,  their  arrangements  are  ad- 
mirable. My  children  shall  always  be  bare-legged  and  wear 
woollen  socks.  There  shall  be  no  swaddling  nor  bandages; 
on  the  other  hand,  they  shall  never  be  left  alone.  The  help- 
lessness of  the  French  infant  in  its  swaddling-bands  means 
the  liberty  of  the  nurse — that  is  the  whole  explanation.  A 
mother,  who  is  really  a  mother,  is  never  free. 

There  is  my  answer  to  your  question  why  I  do  not  write. 
Besides  the  management  of  the  estate,  I  have  the  upbringing 
of  two  children  on  my  hands. 

The  art  of  motherhood  involves  much  silent,  unobtrusive 
self-denial,  an  hourly  devotion  which  finds  no  detail  too 
minute.  The  soup  warming  before  the  fire  must  be  watched 
Am  I  the  kind  of  woman,  do  you  suppose,  to  shirk  such  cares  ? 
The  humblest  task  may  earn  a  rich  harvest  of  affection.  How 
pretty  is  a  child's  laugh  when  he  finds  the  food  to  his  liking ! 
Armand  has  a  way  of  nodding  his  head  when  he  is  pleased 
that  is  worth  a  lifetime  of  adoration.  How  could  I  leave 
to  any  one  else  the  privilege  and  delight,  as  well  as  the  re- 
sponsibility, of  blowing  on  the  spoonful  of  soup  which  is 
too  hot  for  my  little  Nai's,  my  nursling  of  seven  months  ago, 
who  still  remembers  my  breast?  When  a  nurse  has  allowed 
a  child  to  burn  its  tongue  and  lips  with  scalding  food,  she 
tells  the  mother,  who  hurries  up  to  see  what  is  wrong,  that 
the  child  cried  from  hunger.  How  could  a  mother  sleep  in 
peace  with  the  thought  that  a  breath,  less  pure  than  her  own, 
has  cooled  her  child's  food — the  mother  whom  Nature  has 
made  the  direct  vehicle  of  food  to  infant  lips.  To  mince 
a  chop  for  Nai's,  who  has  just  cut  her  last  teeth,  and  mix  the 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  307 

meat,  cooked  to  a  turn,  with  potatoes,  is  a  work  of  patience, 
and  there  are  times,  indeed,  when  none  but  a  mother  could 
succeed  in  making  an  impatient  child  go  through  with  its 
meal. 

No  number  of  servants,  then,  and  no  English  nurse  can 
dispense  a  mother  from  taking  the  field  in  person  in  that 
daily  contest,  where  gentleness  alone  should  grapple  with 
the  little  griefs  and  pains  of  childhood.  Louise,  the  care  of 
these  innocent  darlings  is  a  work  to  engage  the  whole  soul. 
To  whose  hand  and  eyes,  but  one's  own,  intrust  the  task  of 
feeding,  dressing,  and  putting  to  bed?  Broadly  speaking, 
a  crying  child  is  the  unanswerable  condemnation  of  mother 
or  nurse,  except  when  the  cry  is  the  outcome  of  natural  pain. 
Now  that  I  have  two  to  look  after  (and  a  third  on  the  road), 
they  occupy  all  my  thoughts.  Even  you,  whom  I  love  so 
dearly,  have  become  a  memory  to  me. 

My  own  dressing  is  not  always  completed  by  two  o'clock. 
I  have  no  faith  in  mothers  whose  rooms  are  in  apple-pie  order, 
and  who  themselves  might  have  stepped  out  of  a  bandbox. 
Yesterday  was  one  of  those  lovely  days  of  early  April,  and  I 
wanted  to  take  my  children  a  walk,  while  I  was  still  able — 
for  the  warning  bell  is  in  my  ears.  Such  an  expedition  is 
quite  an  epic  to  a  mother !  One  dreams  of  it  the  night  before ! 
Armand  was  for  the  first  time  to  put  on  a  little  black  velvet 
jacket,  a  new  collar  which  I  had  worked,  a  Scotch  cap  with 
the  Stuart  colors  and  cock's  feathers;  Nai's  was  to  be  in 
white  and  pink,  with  one  of  those  delicious  little  baby  caps ; 
for  she  is  a  baby  still,  though  she  will  lose  that  pretty  title 
on  the  arrival  of  the  impatient  youngster,  whom  I  call  my 
beggar,  for  he  will  have  the  portion  of  a  younger  son.  (You 
see,  Louise,  the  child  has  already  appeared  to  me  in  a  vision, 
so  I  know  it  is  a  boy. ) 

Well,  caps,  collars,  jackets,  socks,  dainty  little  shoes,  pink 
garters,  the  muslin  frock  with  silk  embroidery, — all  was  laid 
out  on  my  bed.  Then  the  little  brown  heads  had  to  be 
brushed,  twittering  merrily  all  the  time  like  birds,  answering 
each  other's  call.  Armand's  hair  is  in  curls,  while  Nais'  is 


308  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

brought  forward  softly  on  the  forehead  as  a  border  to  the 
pink-and- white  cap.  Then  the  shoes  are  buckled ;  and  when 
the  little  bare  legs  and  well-shod  feet  have  trotted  off  to  the 
nursery,  while  two  shining  faces  (clean,  Mary  calls  them) 
and  eyes  ablaze  with  life  petition  me  to  start,  my  heart  beats 
fast.  To  look  on  the  children  whom  one's  own  hand  has 
arrayed,  the  pure  skin  brightly  veined  with  blue,  that  one 
has  bathed,  laved,  and  sponged  and  decked  with  gay  colors 
of  silk  or  velvet — why,  there  is  no  poem  comes  near  to  it ! 
With  what  eager,  covetous  longing  one  calls  them  back  for 
one  more  kiss  on  those  white  necks,  which,  in  their  simple 
collars,  the  loveliest  woman  cannot  rival.  Even  the  coarsest 
lithograph  of  such  a  scene  makes  a  mother  pause,  and  I  feast 
my  eyes  daily  on  the  living  picture ! 

Once  out  of  doors,  triumphant  in  the  result  of  my  labors, 
while  I  was  admiring  the  princely  air  with  which  little  Ar- 
mand  helped  baby  to  totter  along  the  path  you  know,  I 
saw  a  carriage  coming,  and  tried  to  get  them  out  of  the  way. 
The  children  tumbled  into  a  dirty  puddle,  and  lo !  my  works 
of  art  are  ruined !  We  had  to  take  them  back  and  change 
their  things.  I  took  the  little  one  in  my  arms,  never  thinking 
of  my  own,  dress,  which  was  ruined,  while  Mary  seized  Ar- 
mand,  and  the  cavalcade  re-entered.  With  a  crying  baby 
and  a  soaked  child,  what  mind  has  a  mother  left  for  herself? 

Dinner  time  arrives,  and  as  a  rule  I  have  done  nothing. 
Now  comes  the  problem  which  faces  me  twice  every  day — 
how  to  suffice  in  my  own  person  for  two  children,  put  on 
their  bibs,  turn  up  their  sleeves,  and  get  them  to  eat.  In 
the  midst  of  these  ever-recurring  cares,  joys,  and  catastro- 
phes, the  only  person  neglected  in  the  house  is  myself,  If 
the  children  have  been  naughty,  often  I  don't  get  rid  of  my 
curl-papers  all  day.  Their  tempers  rule  my  toilet.  As  the 
price  of  the  few  minutes  in  which  I  write  you  these  half- 
dozen  pages,  I  have  had  to  let  them  cut  pictures  out  of  my 
novels,  build  castles  with  books,  chessmen,  or  mother-of- 
pearl  counters,  and  give  Nai's  my  silks  and  wools  to  arrange 
in  her  own  fashion,  which,  I  assure  you,  is  so  complicated, 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  309 

that  she  is  entirely  absorbed  in  it,  and  has  not  uttered  a  word. 

Yet  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  My  children  are  both 
strong  and  independent;  they  amuse  themselves  more  easily 
than  you  would  think.  They  find  delight  in  everything;  a 
guarded  liberty  is  worth  many  toys.  A  few  pebbles — pink, 
yellow,  purple,  and  black,  small  shells,  the  mysteries  of  sand, 
are  a  world  of  pleasure  to  them.  Their  wealth  consists  in 
possessing  a  multitude  of  small  things.  I  watch  Armand  and 
find  him  talking  to  the  flowers,  the  flies,  the  chickens,  and 
imitating  them.  He  is  on  friendly  terms  with  insects,  and 
never  wearies  of  admiring  them.  Everything  which  is  on 
a  minute  scale  interests  them.  Armand  is  beginning  to  ask 
the  "why"  of  everything  he  sees.  He  has  come  to  ask  what 
I  am  saying  to  his  godmother,  whom  he  looks  on  as  a  fairy. 
Strange  how  children  hit  the  mark  ! 

Alas !  my  sweet,  I  would  not  sadden  you  with  the  tale  of 
my  joys.  Let  me  give  you  some  notion  of  your  godson's  char- 
acter. The  other  day  we  were  followed  by  a  poor  man  beg- 
ging— beggars  soon  find  out  that  a  mother  with  her  child 
at  her  side  can't  resist  them.  Armand  has  no  idea  what 
hunger  is,  and  money  is  a  sealed  book  to  him ;  but  I  have  just 
bought  him  a  trumpet  which  had  long  been  the  object  of 
his  desires.  He  held  it  out  to  the  old  man  with  a  kingly  air, 
saying : 

"Here,  take  this !" 

What  joy  the  world  can  give  would  compare  with  such  a 
moment  ? 

"May  I  keep  it?"  said  the  poor  man  to  me.  "I  too,  mad- 
ame,  have  had  children,"  he  added,  hardly  noticing  the 
money  I  put  into  his  hand. 

I  shudder  when  I  think  that  Armand  must  go  to  school, 
and  that  I  have  only  three  years  and  a  half  more  to  keep 
him  by  me.  The  flowers  that  blossom  in  his  sunny  child- 
hood will  fall  before  the  scythe  of  a  public  school  system ;  his 
gracious  ways  and  bewitching  candor  will  lose  their  spon- 
taneity. They  will  cut  the  .curls  that  I  have  brushed  and 


310  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

smoothed  and  kissed  so  often !    What  will  they  do  with  the 
thinking  being  that  is  Armand? 

And  what  of  you?  You  tell  me  nothing  of  your  life. 
Are  you  still  in  love  with  Felipe  ?  For,  as  regards  the  Sara- 
cen, I  have  no  uneasiness.  Good-bye;  ISTais  has  just  had  a 
tumble,  and  if  I  run.  on  like  this,  my  letter  will  become  a 
volume. 


XLVI 

MME.  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  COMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

1829. 

MY  sweet,  tender  Rene"e,  you  will  have  learned  from  the 
papers  the  terrible  calamity  which  has  overwhelmed  me. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  write  you  even  a  word.  For  twenty 
days  I  never  left  his  bedside;  I  received  his  last  breath 
and  closed  his  eyes;  I  kept  holy  watch  over  him  with  the 
priests  and  repeated  the  prayers  for  the  dead.  The  cruel 
pangs  I  suffered  were  accepted  by  me  as  a  rightful  punish- 
ment ;  and  yet,  when  I  saw  on  his  calm  lips  the  smile  which 
was  his  last  farewell  to  me,  how  was  it  possible  to  believe 
that  I  had  caused  his  death ! 

Be  it  so  or  not,  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  left.  To  you,  who 
have  known  us  both  so  well,  what  more  need  I  say?  These 
words  contain  all.  Oh!  I  would  give  my  share  of  Heaven 
to  hear  the  flattering  tale  that  my  prayers  have  power 
to  call  him  back  to  life !  To  see  him  again,  to  have  him  once 
more  mine,  were  it  only  for  a  second,  would  mean  that  I 
could  draw  breath  again  without  mortal  agony.  Will  you 
not  come  soon  and  soothe  me  with  such  promises?  Is  not 
your  love  strong  enough  to  deceive  me  ? 

But  stay !  it  was  you  who  told  me  beforehand  that  he 
would  suffer  through  me.  Was  it  so  indeed  ?  Yes,  it  is  true, 
I  had  no  right  to  his  love.  Like  a  thief,  I  took  what  was  not 
mine,  and  my  frenzied  grasp  has  crushed  the  life  out  of  my 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  311 

bliss.  The  madness  is  over  now,  but  I  feel  that  I  am  alone. 
Merciful  God!  what  torture  of  the  damned  can  exceed  the 
misery  in  that  word  ? 

When  they  took  him  away  from  me,  I  lay  down  on  the  same 
bed  and  hoped  to  die.  There  was  but  a  door  between  us,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  I  had  strength  to  force  it !  But,  alas !  I  was 
too  young  for  death;  and  after  forty  days,  during  which, 
with  cruel  care  and  all  the  sorry  inventions  of  medical 
science,  they  slowly  nursed  me  back  to  life,  I  find  myself  in 
the  country,  seated  by  my  window,  surrounded  with  lovely 
flowers,  which  he  made  to  bloom  for  me,  gazing  on  the  same 
splendid  view  over  which  his  eyes  have  so  often  wandered, 
and  which  he  was  so  proud  to  have  discovered,  since  it  gave 
me  pleasure.  Ah !  dear  Benee,  no  words  can  tell  how  new 
surroundings  hurt  when  the  heart  is  dead.  I  shiver  at  the 
sight  of  the  moist  earth  in  my  garden,  for  the  earth  is  a  vast 
tomb,  and  it  is  almost  as  though  I  walked  on  him!  When 
I  first  went  out,  I  trembled  with  fear  and  could  not  move. 
It  was  so  sad  to  see  his  flowers,  and  he  not  there ! 

My  father  and  mother  are  in  Spain.  You  know  what  my 
brothers  are,  and  you  yourself  are  detained  in  the  country. 
But  you  need  not  be  uneasy  about  me;  two  angels  of  mercy 
flew  to  my  side.  The  Due  and  the  Duchesse  de  Soria  hastened 
to  their  brother  in  his  illness,  and  have  been  everything  that 
heart  could  wish.  The  last  few  nights  before  the  end  found 
the  three  of  us  gathered,  in  calm  and  wordless  grief,  round 
the  bed  where  this  great  man  was  breathing  his  last,  a  man 
among  a  thousand,  rare  in  any  age,  head  and  shoulders  above 
the  rest  of  us  in  everything.  The  patient  resignation  of  my 
Felipe  was  angelic.  The  sight  of  his  brother  and  Marie  gave 
him  a  moment's  pleasure  and  easing  of  his  pain. 

"Darling,"  he  said  to  me  with  the  simple  frankness  which 
never  deserted  him,  "I  had  almost  gone  from  life  without 
leaving  to  Fernand  the  Barony  of  Macumer;  I  must  make  a 
new  will.  My  brother  will  forgive  me;  he  knows  what  it  is 
to  love !" 

I  owe  my  life  to  the  care  of  my  brother-in-law  and  his 
wife;  they  want  to  carry  me  off  to  Spain! 


312  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

Ah !  Renee,  to  no  one  but  you  can  I  speak  freely  of  my 
grief.  A  sense  of  my  own  faults  weighs  me  to  the  ground, 
and  there  is  a  hitter  solace  in  pouring  them  out  to  you,  poor, 
unheeded  Cassandra.  The  exactions,  the  preposterous  jeal- 
ousy, the  nagging  unrest  of  my  passion  wore  him  to  death. 
My  love  was  the  more  fraught  with  danger  for  him  because 
we  had  both  the  same  exquisitely  sensitive  nature,  we  spoke 
the  same  language,  nothing  was  lost  on  him,  and  often  the 
mocking  shaft,  so  carelessly  discharged,  went  straight  to  his 
heart.  You  can  have  no  idea  of  the  point  to  which  he  car- 
ried submissiveness.  I  had  only  to  tell  him  to  go  and  leave 
me  alone,  and  the  caprice,  however  wounding  to  him,  would 
be  obeyed  without  a  murmur.  His  last  breath  was  spent  in 
blessing  me  and  in  repeating  that  a  single  morning  alone 
with  me  was  more  precious  to  him  than  a  lifetime  spent  with 
another  woman,  were  she  even  the  Marie  of  his  youth.  My 
tears  fall  as  I  write  the  words. 

This  is  the  manner  of  my  life  now.  I  rise  at  midday  and 
go  to  bed  at  seven;  I  linger  absurdly  long  over  meals;  I 
saunter  about  slowly,  standing  motionless,,  an  hour  at  a  time, 
before  a  single  plant;  I  gaze  into  the  leafy  trees;  I  take  a 
sober  and  serious  interest  in  mere  nothings ;  I  long  for  shade, 
silence,  and  night;  in  a  word,  I  fight  through  each  hour  as 
it  comes,  and  take  a  gloomy  pleasure  in  adding  it  to  the 
heap  of  the  vanquished.  My  peaceful  park  gives  me  all  the 
company  I  care  for;  everything  there  is  full  of  glorious  im- 
ages of  my  vanished  joy,  invisible  for  others  but  eloquent 
to  me. 

"I  cannot  away  with  you  Spaniards !"  I  exclaimed  one 
morning,  as  my  sister-in-law  flung  herself  on  my  neck. 
"You  have  some  nobility  that  we  lack." 

Ah !  Renee,  if  I  still  live,  it  is  doubtless  because  Heaven 
tempers  the  sense  of  affliction  to  the  strength  of  those  who 
have  to  bear  it.  Only  a  woman  can  know  what  it  is  to  lose 
a  love  which  sprang  from  the  heart  and  was  genuine  through- 
out, a  passion  which  was  not  ephemeral,  and  satisfied  at  once 
the  spirit  and  the  flesh.  How  rare  it  is  to  find  a  man  so 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  313 

gifted  that  to  worship  him  brings  no  sense  of  degradation! 
If  such  supreme  fortune  befall  us  once,  we  cannot  hope  for  it 
a  second  time.  Men  of  true  greatness,  whose  strength  and 
worth  are  veiled  by  poetic  grace,  and  who  charm  by  some 
high  spiritual  power,  men  made  to  be  adored,  beware  of  love ! 
Love  will  ruin  you,  and  ruin  the  woman  of  your  heart.  This 
is  the  burden  of  my  cry  as  I  pace  my  woodland  walks. 

And  he  has  left  me  no  child !  That  love  so  rich  in  smiles, 
which  rained  perpetual  flowers  and  joy,  has  left  no  fruit.  I 
am  a  thing  accursed.  Can  it  be  that,  even  as  the  two  extremes 
of  polar  ice  and  torrid  sand  are  alike  intolerant  of  life,  so 
the  very  purity  and  vehemence  of  a  single-hearted  passion 
render  it  barren  as  hate?  Is  it  only  a  marriage  of  reason, 
such  as  yours,  which  is  blessed  with  a  family?  Can  Heaven 
be  jealous  of  our  passions  ?  These  are  wild  words. 

You  are,  I  believe,  the  one  person  whose  company  I  could 
endure.  Come  to  meP  then;  none  but  Eenee  should  be  with 
Louise  in  her  sombre  garb.  What  a  day  when  I  first  put 
on  my  widow's  bonnet !  When  I  saw  myself  all  arrayed  in 
black,  I  fell  back  on  a  seat  and  wept  till  night  came;  and 
I  weep  again  as  I  recall  that  moment  of  anguish. 

Good-bye.  Writing  tires  me;  thoughts  crowd  fast,  but  I 
have  no  heart  to  put  them  into  words.  Bring  your  children ; 
you  can  nurse  baby  here  without  making  me  jealous ;  all  that 
is  gone,  he  is  not  here,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  my 
godson.  Felipe  used  to  wish  for  a  child  like  little  Armand. 
Come,  then,  come  and  help  me  to  bear  my  woe. 


XLVII 

BENEE  TO  LOUISE 

1829- 

MY  DARLING, — When  you  hold  this  letter  in  your  hands,  I 
shall  be  already  near,  for  I  am  starting  a  few  minutes  after 
it.  We  shall  be  alone  together.  Louis  is  obliged  to  remain 


314  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

in  Provence  because  of  the  approaching  elections.  He  wants 
to  be  elected  again,  and  the  Liberals  are  already  plotting 
against  his  return. 

I  don't  come  to  comfort  you ;  I  only  bring  you  my  heart  to 
beat  in  sympathy  with  yours,  and  help  you  to  bear  with  life. 
I  come  to  bid  you  weep,  for  only  with  tears  can  you  purchase 
the  joy  of  meeting  him  again.  Remember,  he  is  traveling 
towards  Heaven,  and  every  step  forward  which  you  take 
brings  you  nearer  to  him.  Every  duty  done  breaks  a  link  in 
the  chain  that  keeps  you  apart. 

Louise,  in  my  arms  you  will  once  more  raise  your  head 
and  go  on  your  way  to  him,  pure,  noble,  washed  of  all  those 
errors,  which  had  no  root  in  your  heart,  and  bearing  with  you 
the  harvest  of  good  deeds  which,  in  his  name,  you  will  ac- 
complish here. 

I  scribble  these  hasty  lines  in  all  the  bustle  of  preparation, 
and  interrupted  by  the  babies  and  by  Armand,  who  keeps 
crying,  "Godmother,  godmother!  I  want  to  see  her,"  till  I 
am  almost  jealous.  He  might  be  your  child! 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  815 


SECOND  PART 


XLVIII 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  COMTESSE  T»B 
I/ESTORADE 

October  15, 1838. 

YES,  "Renee,  it  is  quite  true ;  you  have  been  correctly  informed. 
I  have  sold  my  house,  I  have  sold  Chantepleurs,  and  the 
farms  in  Seine-et-Marne,  hut  no  more,  please !  I  am  neither 
mad  nor  ruined,  I  assure  you. 

Let  us  go  into  the  matter.  When  everything  was  wound 
up,  there  remained  to  me  of  my  poor  Macumer's  fortune 
about  twelve  hundred  thousand  francs.  I  will  account,  as  to 
a  practical  sister,  for  every  penny  of  this. 

I  put  a  million  into  the  Three  per  Cents  when  they  were 
at  fifty,  and  so  I  have  got  an  income  for  myself  of  sixty  thou- 
sand francs,  instead  of  the  thirty  thousand  which  the  property 
yielded.  Then,  only  think  what  my  life  was.  Six  months 
of  the  year  in  the  country,  renewing  leases,  listening  to  the 
grumbles  of  the  farmers,  who  pay  when  it  pleases  them,  and 
getting  as  bored  as  a  'sportsman  in  wet  weather.  There  was 
produce  to  sell,  and  I  always  sold  it  at  a  loss.  Then,  in 
Paris  my  house  represented  a  rental  of  ten  thousand  francs; 
I  had  to  invest  my  money  at  the  notaries ;  I  was  kept  waiting 
for  the  interest,  and  could  only  get  the  money  back  by  prose- 
cuting; in  addition  I  had  to  study  the  law  of  mortgage.  In 
short,  there  was  business  in  Nivernais,  in  Seine-et-Marne,  in 
Paris — and  what  a  burden,  what  a  nuisance,  what  a  vexing 
and  losing  game  for  a  widow  of  twenty-seven ! 


816  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

Whereas  now  my  fortune  is  secured  on  the  Budget.  In 
place  of  paying  taxes  to  the  State,  I  receive  from  it,  every 
half-year,  in  my  own  person,  and  free  from  cost,  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  in  thirty  notes,  handed  over  the  counter  to  me 
by  a  dapper  little  clerk  at  the  Treasury,,  who  smiles  when 
he  sees  me  coming! 

Supposing  the  nation  became  bankrupt?  Well,  to  begin 
with: 

"Tis  not  mine  to  seek  trouble  so  far  from  my  door. 

At  the  worst,  too,  the  nation  would  not  dock  me  of  more 
than  half  my  income,  so  I  should  still  be  as  well  off  as  before 
my  investment,  and  in  the  meantime  I  shall  be  .drawing  a 
double  income  until  the  catastrophe  arrives.  A  nation  doesn't 
become  bankrupt  more  than  once  in  a  century,  so  I  shall  have 
plenty  of  time  to  amass  a  little  capital  out  of  my  savings. 

And  finally,  is  not  the  Comte  de  1'Estorade  a  peer  of  this 
July  semi-republic  ?  Is  he  not  one  of  those  pillars  of  royalty 
offered  by  the  "people"  to  the  King  of  the  French  ?  How  can 
I  have  qualms  with  a  friend  at  Court,  a  great  financier,  head 
of  the  Audit  Department  ?  I  defy  you  to  arraign  my  .sanity ! 
I  am  almost  as  good  at  sums  as  your  citizen  king. 

Do  you  know  what  inspires  a  woman  with  all  this  arith- 
metic? Love,  my  dear! 

Alas !  the  moment  has  come  for  unfolding  to  you  the  mys- 
teries of  my  conduct,  the  motives  of  which  have  baffled  even 
your  keen  -  sight,  your  prying  affection,  and  your  subtlety. 
I  am  to  be  married  in  a  country  village  near  Paris.  I  love 
and  am  loved.  I  love  as  much  as  a  woman  can  who  knows 
love  well.  I  am  loved  as  much  as  a  woman  ought  to  be  by  the 
man  she  adores. 

Forgive  me,  Ken^e,  for  keeping  this  a  secret  from  you  and 
from  every  one.  If  your  friend  evades  all  spies  and  puts 
curiosity  on  a  false  track,  you  must  admit  that  my  feeling 
for  poor  Macumer  justified  some  dissimulation.  Besides, 
de  1'Estorade  and  you  would  have  deafened  me  with  remon- 
strances, and  plagued  me  to  death  with  your  misgivings,  to 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  317 

which  the  facts  might  have  lent  some  color.  You  know,  if  no 
one  else  does,  to  what  pitch  my  jealousy  can  go,  and  all  this 
would  only  have  been  useless  torture  to  me.  I  was  determined 
to  carry  out,  on  my  own  responsibility,  what  you,  Kenee,  will 
call  my  insane  project,  and  I  would  take  counsel  only  with 
my  own  head  and  heart,  for  all  the  world  like  a  schoolgirl 
giving  the  slip  to  her  watchful  parents. 

The  •  man  I  love  possesses  nothing  but  thirty  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  debts,  which  I  have  paid.  What  a  theme 
for  comment  here!  You  would  have  tried  to  make  Gaston 
out  an  adventurer;  your  husband  would  have  set  detectives 
on  the  dear  boy.  •  I  preferred  to  sift  him  for  myself.  He 
has  been  wooing  me  now  close  on  two  years.  I  am  twenty- 
seven,  he  is  twenty-three.  The  difference,  I  admit,  is  huge 
when  it  is  on  the  wrong  side.  Another  source  of  lamentation ! 

Lastly,  he  is  a  poet,  and  has  lived  by  his  trade — that  is  to 
say,  on  next  to  nothing,  as  you  will  readily  understand.  Be- 
ing a  poet,  he  has  spent  more  time  weaving  day-dreams,  and 
basking,  lizard-like,  in  the  sun,  than  scribing  in  his  dingy 
garret.  Now,  practical  people  have  a  way  of  tarring  with 
the  same  brush  of  inconstancy  authors,  artists,  and  in  general 
all  men  who  live  by  their  brains.  Their  nimble  and  fertile 
wit  lays  them  open  to  the  charge  of  a  like  agility  in  matters 
of  the  heart. 

Spite  of  the  debts,  spite  of  the  difference  in  age,  spite  of 
the  poetry,  an  end  is  to  be  placed  in  a  few  days  to  a  heroic 
resistance  of  more  than  nine  months,  during  which  he  has 
not  been  allowed  even  to  kiss  my  hand,  and  so  also  ends  the 
season  of  our  sweet,  pure,  love-making.  This  is  not  the  mere 
surrender  of  a  raw,  ignorant,  and  curious  girl,  as  it  was 
eight  years  ago;  the  gift  is  deliberate,  and  my  lover  awaits 
it  with  such  loyal  patience  that,  if  I  pleased,  I  could  postpone 
the  marriage  for  a  year.  There  is  no  servility  in  this ;  love's 
slave  he  may  be,  but  the  heart  is  not  slavish.  Never  have  I 
seen  a  man  of  nobler  feeling,  or  one  whose  tenderness  was 
more  rich  in  fancy,  whose  love  bore  more  the  impress  of  his 
soul.  Alas !  my  sweet  one,  the  art  of  love  is  his  by  heritage. 
A  few  words  will  tell  his  story. 


318  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

My  friend  has  no  other  name  than  Marie  Gaston.  He  is 
the  illegitimate  son  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Brandon,  whose 
fame  must  have  reached  you,  and  who  died  broken-hearted,  a 
victim  to  the  vengeance  of  Lady  Dudley — a  ghastly  story  of 
which  the  dear  boy  knows  nothing.  Marie  Gaston  was  placed 
by  his  brother  Louis  in  a  boarding-school  at  Tours,  where  he 
remained  till  1827.  Louis,  after  settling  his  brother  at 
school,  sailed  a  few  days  later  for  foreign  parts  "to  seek  his 
fortune,"  to  use  the  words  of  an  old  woman  who  had  played 
the  part  of  Providence  to  him.  This  brother  turned  sailor 
used  to  write  him,  at  long  intervals,  letters  quite  fatherly  in 
tone,  and  breathing  a  noble  spirit ;  but  a  struggling  life  never 
allowed  him  to  return  home.  His  last  letter  told  Marie  that 
he  had  been  appointed  Captain  in  the  navy  of  some  American 
republic,  and  exhorted  him  to  hope  for  better  days. 

Alas!  since  then  three  years  have  passed,  and  my  poor 
poet  has  never  heard  again.  So  dearly  did  he  love  his 
brother,  that  he  would  have  started  to  look  for  him  but 
for  Daniel  d'Arthez,  the  well-known  author,  who  took  a 
generous  interest  in  Marie  Gaston,  and  prevented  him  carry- 
ing out  his  mad  impulse.  Nor  was  this  all;  often  would 
he  give  him  a  crust  and  a  corner,  as  the  poet  puts  it  in  his 
graphic  words. 

For,  in  truth,  the  poor  lad  was  in  terrible  straits;  he 
was  actually  innocent  enough  to  believe — incredible  as  it 
seems — that  genius  was  the  shortest  road  to  fortune,  and 
from  1828  to  1833  his  one  aim  has  been  to  make  a  name 
for  himself  in  letters.  Naturally  his  life  was  a  frightful 
tissue  of  toil  and  hardships,  alternating  between  hope  and 
despair.  The  good  advice  of  d'Arthez  could  not  prevail 
against  the  allurements  of  ambition,  and  his  debts  went  on 
growing  like  a  snowball.  Still  he  was  beginning  to  come 
into  notice  when  I  happened  to  meet  him  at  Mme.  d'Espard's. 
At  first  sight  he  inspired  me,  unconsciously  to  himself,  with 
the  most  vivid  sympathy.  How  did  it  come  about  that  this 
virgin  heart  had  been  left  -for  me?  The  fact  is  that  my 
poet  combines  genius  and  cleverness,  passion  and  pride,  and 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  319 

women  are  always  afraid  of  greatness  which  has  no  weak  side 
to  it.  How  many  victories  were  needed  before  Josephine 
could  see  the  great  Napoleon  in  the  little  Bonaparte  whom 
she  had  married? 

Poor  Gaston  is  innocent  enough  to  think  he  knows  the 
measure  of  my  love!  He  simply  has  not  an  idea  of  it,  but 
to  you  I  must  make  it  clear;  for  this  letter,  Renee,  is  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  last  will  and  testament.  Weigh 
well  what  I  am  going  to  say,  I  beg  of  you. 

At  this  moment  I  am  confident  of  being  loved  as  perhaps 
not  another  woman  on  this  earth,  nor  have  I  a  shadow  of 
doubt  as  to  the  perfect  happiness  of  our  wedded  life,  to 
which  I  bring  a  feeling  hitherto  unknown  to  me.  Yes,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  know  the  delight  of  being  swayed 
by  passion.  That  which  every  woman  seeks  in  love  will  be 
mine  in  marriage.  As  poor  Felipe  once  adored  me,  so  do  I 
now  adore  Gaston.  I  have  lost  control  of  myself,  I  tremble 
before  this  boy  as  the  Arab  hero  used  to  tremble  before  me. 
In  a  word,  the  balance  of  love  is  now  on  my  side,  and 
this  makes  me  timid.  I  am  full  of  the  most  absurd  terrors. 
I  am  afraid  of  being  deserted,  afraid  of  becoming  old  and 
ugly  while  Gaston  still  retains  his  youth  and  beauty,  afraid 
of  coming  short  of  his  hopes ! 

And  yet  I  believe  I  have  it  in  me,  I  believe  I  have  sufficient 
devotion  and  ability,  not  only  to  keep  alive  the  flame  of  his 
love  in  our  solitary  life,  far  from  the  world,  but  even  to 
make  it  burn  stronger  and  brighter.  If  I  am  mistaken,  if 
this  splendid  idyl  of  love  in  hiding  must  come  to  an  end — 
an  end!  what  am  I  saying? — if  I  find  Gaston's  love  less  in- 
tense any  day  than  it  was  the  evening  before,  be  sure  of 
this,  Eenee,  I  should  visit  my  failure  only  on  myself;  no 
blame  should  attach  to  him.  I  tell  you  now  it  would  mean 
my  death.  Not  even  if  I  had  children  could  I  live  on  these 
terms,  for  I  know  myself,  Renee,  I  know  that  my  nature  is 
the  lover's  rather  than  the  mother's.  Therefore  before  tak- 
ing this  vow  upon  my  soul,  I  implore  you,  my  Renee,  if  this 
disaster  befall  me,  to  take  the  place  of  mother  to  my  children ; 


320  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

let  them  be  my  legacy  to  you !  All  that  I  know  of  you,  your 
blind  attachment  to  duty,  your  rare  gifts,  your  love  of  chil- 
dren, your  affection  for  me,  would  help  to  make  my  death — 
I  dare  not  say  easy — but  at  least  less  bitter. 

The  compact  I  have  thus  made  with  myself  adds  a  vague 
terror  to  the  solemnity  of  my  marriage  ceremony.  For  this 
reason  I  wish  to  have  no  one  whom  I  know  present,  and  it 
will  be  performed  in  secret.  Let  my  heart  fail  me  if  it  will, 
at  least  I  shall  not  read  anxiety  in  your  dear  eyes,  and  I 
alone  shall  know  that  this  new  marriage-contract  which  I 
sign  may  be  my  death  warrant. 

I  shall  not  refer  again  to  this  agreement  entered  into  be- 
tween my  present  self  and  the  self  I  am  to  be.  I  have  con- 
fided it  to  you  in  order  that  you  might  know  the  full  extent 
of  your  responsibilities.  In  marrying  I  retain  full  control 
of  my  property;  and  Gaston,  while  aware  that  I  have  enough 
to  secure  a  comfortable  life  for  both  of  us,  is  ignorant  of  its 
amount.  Within  twenty-four  hours  I  shall  dispose  of  it 
as  I  please;  and  in  order  to  save  him  from  a  humiliating 
position,  I  shall  have  stock,  bringing  in  twelve  thousand 
francs  a  year,  assigned  to  him.  He  will  find  this  in  his  desk 
on  the  eve  of  our  wedding.  If  he  declined  to  accept,  I  should 
break  off  the  whole  thing.  I  had  to  threaten  a  rupture  to  get 
his  permission  to  pay  his  debts. 

This  long  confession  has  tired  me.  I  shall  finish  it  the 
day  after  to-morrow;  I  have  to  spend  to-morrow  in  the 
country. 

October  2<MA. 

I  will  tell  you  now  the  steps  I  have  taken  to  insure  se- 
crecy. My  object  has  been  to  ward  off  every  possible  incite- 
ment to  my  ever-wakeful  jealousy,  in  imitation  of  the  Italian 
princess,  who,  like  a  lioness  rushing  on  her  prey,  carried  it 
off  to  some  Swiss  town  to  devour  in  peace.  And  I  confide 
my  plans  to  you  only  because  I  have  another  favor  to  beg; 
namely,  that  you  will  respect  our  solitude  and  never  come 
to  see  us  uninvited. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  321 

Two  years  ago  I  purchased  a  small  property  overlooking 
the  ponds  of  Ville  d'Avray,  on  the  road  to  Versailles.  It 
consists  of  twenty  acres  of  meadow  land,  the  skirts  of  a 
wood,  and  a  fine  fruit  garden.  Below  the  meadows  the  land 
has  been  excavated  so  as  to  make  a  lakelet  of  about  three 
acres  in  extent,  with  a  charming  little  island  in  the  middle. 
The  small  valley  is  shut  in  by  two  graceful,  thickly-wooded 
slopes,  where  rise  delicious  springs  that  water  my  park  by 
means  of  channels  cleverly  disposed  by  my  architect.  Fi- 
nally, they  fall  into  the  royal  ponds,  glimpses  of  which  can 
be  seen  here  and  there,  gleaming  in  the  distance.  My  little 
park  has  been  admirably  laid  out  by  the  architect,  who  has 
surrounded  it  by  hedges,  walls,  or  ha-has,  according  to  the 
lie  of  the  land,  so  that  no  possible  point  of  view  may  be 
lost. 

A  chalet  has  been  built  for  me  half-way  up  the  hillside, 
with  a  charming  exposure,  having  the  woods  of  the  Eonce 
on  either  side,  and  in  front  a  grassy  slope  running  down  to 
the  lake.  Externally  the  chalet  is  an  exact  copy  of  those 
which  are  so  much  admired  by  travelers  on  the  road  from 
Sion  to  Brieg,  and  which  fascinated  me  when  I  was  return- 
ing from  Italy.  The  internal  decorations  will  bear  com- 
parison with  those  of  the  most  celebrated  buildings  of  the 
kind. 

A  hundred  paces  from  this  rustic  dwelling  stands  a  charm- 
ing and  ornamental  house,  communicating  with  it  by  a  sub- 
terranean passage.  This  contains  the  kitchen,  and  other 
servants'  rooms,  stables,  and  coach-houses.  Of  all  this  series 
of  brick  buildings,  the  fagade  alone  is  seen,  graceful  in  its 
simplicity,,  against  a  background  of  shrubbery.  Another 
building  serves  to  lodge  the  gardeners  and  masks  the  en- 
trance to  the  orchards  and  kitchen-gardens. 

The  entrance  gate  to  the  property  is  so  hidden  in  the  wall 
dividing  the  park  from  the  wood  as  almost  to  defy  detection. 
The  plantations,  already  well  grown,  will,  in  two  or  three 
years,  completely  hide  the  buildings,  so  that,  except  in  win- 
ter, when  the  trees  are  bare,  no  trace  of  habitation  will  ap- 


322 

pear  to  the  outside  world,  save  only  the  smoke  visible  from 
the  neighboring  hills. 

The  surroundings  of  my  chalet  have  been  modeled  on  what 
is  called  the  King's  Garden  at  Versailles,  but  it  has  an  out- 
look on  my  lakelet  and  island.  The  hills  on  every  side  dis- 
play their  abundant  foliage — those  splendid  trees  for  which 
your  new  civil  list  has  so  well  cared.  My  gardeners  have 
orders  to  cultivate  new  sweet-scented  flowers  to  any  extent, 
and  no  others,  so  that  our  home  will  be  a  fragrant  emerald. 
The  chalet,  adorned  with  a  wild  vine  which  covers  the 
roof,  is  literally  embedded  in  climbing  plants  of  all  kinds — 
hops,  clematis,  jasmine,  azalea,  copaea.  It  will  be  a  sharp 
eye  which  can  descry  our  windows ! 

The  chalet,  my  dear,  is  a  good,  solid  house,  with  its  heat- 
ing system  and  all  the  conveniences  of  modern  architecture, 
which  can  raise  a  palace  in  the  compass  of  a  hundred  square 
feet.  It  contains  a  suite  of  rooms  for  Gaston  and  another 
for  me.  The  ground-floor  is  occupied  by  an  ante-room,  a 
parlor,  and  a  dining-room.  Above  our  floor  again  are  three 
rooms  destined  for  the  nurseries.  I  have  five  first-rate 
horses,  a  small  light  coupe,  and  a  two-horse  cabriolet.  We 
are  only  forty-minutes'  drive  from  Paris;  so  that,  when  the 
spirit  moves  us  to  hear  an  opera  or  see  a  new  play,  we  can 
start  after  dinner  and  return  the  same  night  to  our  bower. 
The  road  is  a  good  one,  and  passes  under  the  shade  of  our 
green  dividing  wall. 

My  servants — cook,  coachman,  groom,  and  gardeners,  in 
addition  to  my  maid — are  all  very  respectable  people,  whom 
I  have  spent  the  last  six  months  in  picking  up,  and  they  will 
be  superintended  by  my  old  Philippe.  Although  confident  of 
their  loyalty  and  good  faith,  I  have  not  neglected  to  culti- 
vate self-interest;  their  wages  are  small,  but  will  receive 
an  annual  addition  in  the  shape  of  a  New  Year's  Day  pres- 
ent. They  are  all  aware  that  the  slightest  fault,  or  a  mere 
suspicion  of  gossiping,  might  lose  them  a  capital  place. 
Lovers  are  never  troublesome  to  their  servants;  they  are 
indulgent  by  disposition,  and  therefore  I  feel  that  I  can  reckon 
on  my  household. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  323 

All  that  is  choice,  pretty,  or  decorative  in  my  house  in  the 
Rue  du  Bac  has  been  transported  to  the  chalet.  The  Rem- 
brandt hangs  on  the  staircase,  as  though  it  were  a  mere  daub ; 
the  Hobbema  faces  the  Rubens  in  his  study;  the  Titian, 
which  my  sister-in-law  Mary  sent  me  from  Madrid,  adorns 
the  boudoir.  The  beautiful  furniture  picked  up  by  Felipe 
looks  very  well  in  the  parlor,  which  the  architect  has  deco- 
rated most  tastefully.  Everything  at  the  chalet  is  charm- 
ingly simple,  with  the  simplicity  which  can't  be  got  under 
a  hundred  thousand  francs.  Our  ground-floor  rests  on  cel- 
lars, which  are  built  of  millstone  and  embedded  in  con- 
crete; it  is  almost  completely  buried  in  flowers  and  shrubs, 
and  is  deliciously  cool  without  a  vestige  of  damp.  To  com- 
plete the  picture,  a  fleet  of  white  swans  sail  over  my  lake ! 

Oh !  Renee,  the  silence  which  reigns  in  this  valley  would 
bring  joy  to  the  dead !  One  is  awakened  by  the  birds  sing- 
ing or  the  breeze  rustling  in  the  poplars.  A  little  spring, 
discovered  by  the  architect  in  digging  the  foundations  of  the 
wall,  trickles  down  the  hillside  over  silvery  sand  to  the  lake, 
between  two  banks  of  water-cress,  hugging  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  I  know  nothing  that  money  can  buy  to  equal  it. 

May  not  Gaston  come  to  loathe  this  too  perfect  bliss?  I 
shudder  to  think  how  complete  it  is,  for  the  ripest  fruits 
harbor  the  worms,  the  most  gorgeous  flowers  attract  the  in- 
sects. Is  it  not  ever  the  monarch  of  the  forest  which  is  eaten 
away  by  the  fatal  brown  grub,  greedy  as  death?  I  have 
learned  before  now  that  an  unseen  and  jealous  power  attacks 
happiness  which  has  reached  perfection.  Besides,  this  is  the 
moral  of  all  your  preaching,  and  you  have  been  proved  a 
prophet. 

When  I  went,  the  day  before  yesterday,  to  see  whether  my 
last  whim  had  been  carried  out,  tears  rose  to  my  eyes;  and, 
to  the  great  surprise  of  my  architect,  I  at  once  passed  his 
account  for  payment. 

"But,  madame,"  he  exclaimed,  "your  man  of  business  will 
refuse  to  pay  this;  it  is  a  matter  of  three  hundred  thousand 
francs."  My  only  reply  was  to  add  the  words,  "To  be  paid 


324  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

without  question,"  with  the  bearing  of  a  seventeenth-century 
Chaulieu. 

"But,"  I  said,  "there  is  one  condition  to  my  gratitude.  No 
human  being  must  hear  from  you  of  the  park  and  buildings. 
Promise  me,  on  your  honor,  to  observe  this  article  in  our 
contract — not  to  breathe  to  a  soul  the  proprietor's  name." 

Now,  can  you  understand  the  meaning  of  my  sudden  jour- 
neys, my  mysterious  comings  and  goings  ?  Now,  do  you  know 
whither  those  beautiful  things,  which  the  world  supposes  to 
be  sold,  have  flown?  Do  you  perceive  the  ultimate  motive 
of  my  change  of  investment?  Love,  my  dear,  is  a  vast  busi- 
ness, and  they  who  would  succeed  in  it  should  have  no  other. 
Henceforth  I  shall  have  no  more  trouble  from  money  mat- 
ters; I  have  taken  all  the  thorns  out  of  my  life,  and  done 
my  housekeeping  work  once  for  all  with  a  vengeance,  so  as 
never  to  be  troubled  with  it  again,  except  during  the  daily 
ten  minutes  which  I  shall  devote  to  my  old  major-domo 
Philippe.  I  have  made  a  study  of  life  and  its  sharp  curves; 
there  came  a  day  when  death  also  gave  me  harsh  lessons. 
Now  I  want  to  turn  all  this  to  account.  My  one  occupa- 
tion will  be  to  please  Mm  and  love  him,  to  brighten  with 
variety  what  to  common  mortals  is  monotonously  dull. 
.  Gaston  is  still  in  complete  ignorance.  At  my  request  he 
has,  like  myself,  taken  up  his  quarters  at  Ville  d'Avray;  to- 
morrow we  start  for  the  chalet.  Our  life  there  will  cost 
but  little;  but  if  I  told  you  the  sum  I  am  setting  aside  for 
my  toilet,  you  would  exclaim  at  my  madness,  and  with  rea- 
son. I  intend  to  take  as  much  trouble  to  make  myself  beauti- 
ful for  him  every  day  as  other  women  do  for  society.  My 
dress  in  the  country,  year  in,  year  out,  will  cost  twenty-four 
thousand  francs,  and  the  larger  portion  of  this  will  not  go 
in  day  costumes.  As  for  him,  he  can  wear  a  blouse  if  he 
pleases !  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  going  to  turn  our  life 
into  an  amorous  duel  and  wear  myself  out  in  devices  for 
feeding  passion;  all  that  I  want  is  to  have  a  conscience  free 
from  reproach.  Thirteen  years  still  lie  before  me  as  a  pretty 
woman,  and  I  am  determined  to  be  loved  on  the  last  day  of 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  325 

the  thirteenth  even  more  fondly  than  on  the  morrow  of  our 
mysterious  nuptials.  This  time  no  cutting  words  shall  mar 
my  lowly,  grateful  content.  I  will  take  the  part  of  servant, 
since  that  of  mistress  throve  so  ill  with  me  before. 

Ah!  Eenee,  if  Gaston  has  sounded,  as  I  have,  the  heights 
and  depths  of  love,  my  happiness  is  assured !  Nature  at  the 
chalet  wears  her  fairest  face.  The  woods  are  charming; 
each  step  opens  up  to  you  some  fresh  vista  of  cool  greenery, 
which  delights  the  soul  by  the  sweet  thoughts  it  wakens. 
They  breathe  of  love.  If  only  this  be  not  the  gorgeous  thea- 
tre dressed  by  my  hand  for  my  own  martyrdom ! 

In  two  days  from  now  I  shall  be  Mme.  Gaston.  My  God ! 
is  it  fitting  a  Christian  so  to  love  mortal  man  ? 

"Well,  at  least  you  have  the  law  with  you,"  was  the  com- 
ment of  my  man  of  business,  who  is  to  be  one  of  my  wit- 
nesses, and  who  exclaimed,  on  discovering  why  my  property 
was  to  be  realized,  "I  am  losing  a  client !" 

And  you,  my  sweetheart  (whom  I  dare  no  longer  call  my 
loved  one),  may  you  not  cry,  "I  am  losing  a  sister?" 

My  sweet,  address  when  you  write  in  future  to  Mme.  Gas- 
ton,  Poste  Eestante,  Versailles.  We  shall  send  there  every 
day  for  letters.  I  don't  want  to  be  known  to  the  country 
people,  and  we  shall  get  all  our  provisions  from  Paris.  In 
this  way  I  hope  we  may  guard  the  secret  of  our  lives.  No- 
body has  been  seen  in  the  place  during  the  year  spent  in 
preparing  our  retreat;  and  the  purchase  was  made  in  the 
troubled  period  which  followed  the  revolution  of  July.  The 
only  person  who  has  shown  himself  here  is  the  architect;  he 
alone  is  known,  and  he  will  not  return. 

Farewell.  As  I  write  this  word,  I  know  not  whether  my 
heart  is  fuller  of  grief  or  joy.  That  proves,  does  it  not, 
that  the  pain  of  losing  you  equals  my  love  for  Gaston? 


326  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

XLIX 

MARIE  GASTON  TO  DANIEL  D^ARTHEZ 

October  1833. 

MY  DEAR  DANIEL, — I  need  two  witnesses  for  my  marriage. 
I  beg  of  you  to  come  to-morrow  evening  for  this  purpose, 
bringing  with  you  our  worthy  and  honored  friend,  Joseph 
Bridau.  She  who  is  to  be  my  wife,  with  an  instinctive  divi- 
nation of  my  dearest  wishes,  has  declared  her  intention  of 
living  far  from  the  world  in  complete  retirement.  You, 
who  have  done  so  much  to  lighten  my  penury,  have  been  left 
in  ignorance  of  my  love ;  but  you  will  understand  that  abso- 
lute secrecy  was  essential. 

This  will  explain  to  you  why  it  is  that,  for  the  last  year, 
we  have  seen  so  little  of  each  other.  On  the  morrow  of  my 
wedding  we  shall  be  parted  for  a  long  time;  but,  Daniel, 
you  are  of  stuff  to  understand  me.  Friendship  can  subsist 
in  the  absence  of  the  friend.  There  may  be  times  when  I 
phall  want  you  badly,  but  I  shall  not  see  you,  at  least  not  in 
my  own  house.  Here  again  she  has  forestalled  our  wishes. 
She  has  sacrificed  to  me  her  intimacy  with  a  friend  of  her 
childhood,  who  has  been  a  sister  to  her.  For  her  sake,  then, 
I  also  must  relinquish  my  comrade ! 

From  this  fact  alone  you  will  divine  that  ours  is  no  mere 
passing  fancy,  but  love,  absolute,  perfect,  godlike ;  love  based 
upon  the  fullest  knowledge  that  can  bind  two  hearts  in  sym- 
pathy. To  me  it  is  a  perpetual  spring  of  purest  delight. 

Yet  nature  allows  of  no  happiness  without  alloy ;  and  deep 
down,  in  the  innermost  recess  of  my  heart,  I  am  conscious 
of  a  lurking  thought,  not  shared  with  her,  the  pang  of  which 
is  for  me  alone.  You  have  too  often  come  to  the  help  of 
my  inveterate  poverty  to  be  ignorant  how  desperate  matters 
were  with  me.  Where  should  I  have  found  courage  to  keep 
up  the  struggle  of  life,  after  seeing  my  hopes  so  often 
blighted,  but  for  your  cheering  words,  your  tactful  aid,  and 
the  knowledge  of  what  you  had  come  through?  Briefly, 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  327 

then,  my  friend,  she  freed  me  from  that  crushing  load  of 
debt,  which  was  no  secret  to  you.  She  is  wealthy,  I  am 
penniless.  Many  a  time  have  I  exclaimed,  in  one  of  my  fits 
of  idleness,  "Oh  for  some  great  heiress  to  cast  her  eye  on 
me !"  And  now,  in  presence  of  this  reality,  the  boy's  care- 
less jest,  the  unscrupulous  cynicism  of  the  outcast,  have 
alike  vanished,  leaving  in  their  place  only  a  bitter  sense 
of  humiliation,  which  not  the  most  considerate  tenderness 
on  her  part,  nor  my  own  assurance  of  her  noble  nature,  can 
remove.  Nay,  what  better  proof  of  my  love  could  there 
exist,  for  her  or  for  myself,  than  this  shame,  from  which  I 
have  not  recoiled,  even  when  powerless  to  overcome  it  ?  The 
fact  remains  that  there  is  a  point  where,  far  from  protect- 
ing, I  am  the  protected. 

This  is  my  pain  which  I  confide  to  you. 

Except  in  this  one  particular,  dear  Daniel,  my  fondest 
dreams  are  more  than  realized.  Fairest  and  noblest  among 
women,  such  a  bride  might  indeed  raise  a  man  to  giddy 
heights  of  bliss.  Her  gentle  ways  are  seasoned  with  wit, 
her  love  comes  with  an  ever-fresh  grace  and  charm ;  her  mind 
is  well  informed  and  quick  to  understand;  in  person,  she  is 
fair  and  lovely,  with  a  rounded  slimness,  as  though  Raphael 
and  Rubens  had  conspired  to  create  a  woman  !  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  could  have  worshiped  with  such  fervor  at  the 
shrine  of  a  dark  beauty;  a  brunette  always  strikes  me  as  an 
unfinished  boy.  She  is  a  widow,  childless,  and  twenty-seven 
years  of  age.  Though  brimful  of  life  and  energy,  she  has 
her  moods  also  of  dreamy  melancholy.  These  rare  gifts  go 
with  a  proud  aristocratic  bearing;  she  has  a  fine  presence. 

She  belongs  to  one  of  those  old  families  who  make  a  fetich 
of  rank,  yet  loves  me  enough  to  ignore  the  misfortune  of  my 
birth.  Our  secret  passion  is  now  of  long  standing;  we  have 
made  trial,  each  of  the  other,  and  find  that  in  the  matter 
of  jealousy  we  are  twin  spirits;  our  thoughts  are  the  rever- 
beration of  the  same  thunderclap.  We  both  love  for  the  first 
time,  and  this  bewitching  springtime  has  filled  its  days  for 
as  with  all  the  images  of  delight  that  fancy  can  paint  in 


328  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

laughing,  sweet,  or  musing  mood.  Our  path  has  been  strewn 
with  the  flowers  of  tender  imaginings.  Each  hour  brought 
its  own  wealth,  and  when  we  parted,  it  was  to  put  our 
thoughts  in  verse.  Not  for  a  moment  did  I  harbor  the  idea 
of  sullying  the  brightness  of  such  a  time  by  giving  the  rein 
to  sensual  passion,  however  it  might  chafe  within.  She  was 
a  widow  and  free;  intuitively,  she  realized  all  the  homage 
implied  in  this  constant  self-restraint,  which  often  moved  her 
to  tears.  Can  you  not  read  in  this,  my  friend,  a  soul  of  noble 
temper?  In  mutual  fear  we  shunned  even  the  first  kiss  of 
love. 

"We  have  each  a  wrong  to  reproach  ourselves  with,"  she 
said  one  day. 

"Where  is  yours?"  I  asked. 

"My  marriage/'  was  her  reply. 

Daniel,  you  are  a  giant  among  us,  and  you  love  one  of  the 
most  gifted  women  of  the  aristocracy,  which  has  produced 
my  Armande ;  what  need  to  tell  you  more  ?  Such  an  answer 
lays  bare  to  you  a  woman's  heart  and  all  the  happiness  which 
is  in  store  for  your  friend, 

MARIE  GASTON. 


MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MME.  DE  MACUMER 

LOUISE,  can  it  be  that,  with  all  your  knowledge  of  the  deep- 
seated  mischief  wrought  by  the  indulgence  of  passion,  even 
within  the  heart  of  marriage,  you  are  planning  a  life  of 
wedded  solitude?  Having  sacrificed  your  first  husband  in 
the  course  of  a  fashionable  career,  would  you  now  fly  to  the 
desert  to  consume  a  second?  What  stores  of  misery  you  are 
laying  up  for  yourself ! 

But  I  see  from  the  way  you  have  set  about  it  that  there  is 
no  going  back.  The  man  who  has  overcome-  your  aversion 
to  a  second  marriage  must  indeed  possess  some  magic  of 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  329 

mind  and  heart;  and  you  can  only  be  left  to  your  illusions. 
But  have  you  forgotten  your  former  criticism  on  young  men  ? 
Not  one,  you  would  say,  but  has  visited  haunts  of  shame, 
and  has  besmirched  his  purity  with  the  filth  of  the  streets. 
Where  is  the  change,  pray — in  them  or  in  you  ? 

You  are  a  lucky  woman  to  be  able  to  believe  in  happiness. 
I  have  not  the  courage  to  blame  you  for  it,  though  the  in- 
stinct of  affection  urges  me  to  dissuade  you  from  this  mar- 
riage. Yes,  a  thousand  times,  yes,  it  is  true  that  nature  and 
society  are  at  one  in  making  war  on  absolute  happiness,  be- 
cause such  a  condition  is  opposed  to  the  laws  of  both;  pos- 
sibly, also,  because  Heaven  is  jealous  of  its  privileges.  My 
love  for  you  forebodes  some  disaster  to  which  all  my  penetra- 
tion can  give  no  definite  form.  I  know  neither  whence  nor 
from  whom  it  will  arise ;  but  one  need  be  no  prophet  to  fore- 
tell that  the  mere  weight  of  a  boundless  happiness  will  over- 
power you.  Excess  of  joy  is  harder  to  bear  than  any  amount 
of  sorrow. 

Against  him  I  have  not  a  word  to  say.  You  love  him, 
and  in  all  probability  I  have  never  seen  him;  but  some  idle 
day  I  hope  you  will  send  me  a  sketch,  however  slight,  of  this 
rare,  fine  animal. 

If  you  see  me  so  resigned  and  cheerful,  it  is  because  I  am 
convinced  that,  once  the  honeymoon  is  over,  you  will  both, 
with  one  accord,  fall  back  into  the  common  track.  Some 
day,  two  years  hence,  when  we  are  walking  along  this  famous 
road,  you  will  exclaim,  "Why,  there  is  the  chalet  which  was 
to  be  my  home  for  ever  I"  And  you  will  laugh  your  dear  old 
laugh,  which  shows  all  your  pretty  teeth ! 

I  have  said  nothing  yet  to  Louis ;  it  would  be  too  good  an 
opening  for  his  ridicule.  I  shall  tell  him  simply  that  you 
are  going  to  be  married,  and  that  you  wish  it  kept  secret. 
Unluckily,  you  need  neither  mother  nor  sister  for  your  bridal 
evening.  We  are  in  October  now;  like  a  brave  woman,  you 
are  grappling  with  winter  first.  If  it  were  not  a  question 
of  marriage,  I  should  say  you  were  taking  the  bull  by  the 
horns.  In  any  case,  you  will  have  in  me  the  most  discreet 


330  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

and  intelligent  of  friends.  That  mysterious  region,  known 
as  the  centre  of  Africa,  has  swallowed  up  many  travelers,  and 
you  seem  to  me  to  be  launching  on  an  expedition  which,  in 
the  domain  of  sentiment,  corresponds  to  those  where  so  many 
explorers  have  perished,  whether  in  the  sands  or  at  the  hands 
of  natives.  Your  desert  is,  happily,  only  two  leagues  from 
Paris,  so  I  can  wish  you  quite  cheerfully,  "A  safe  journey 
and  speedy  return." 


LI 

THE   COMTESSE   DE   I/ESTORADE   TO    MME.    MARIE    GASTON 

1835. 

WHAT  has  come  to  you,  my  dear?  After  a  silence  of  two 
years,  surely  Renee  has  a  right  to  feel  anxious  about  Louise. 
So  this  is  love !  It  brushes  aside  and  scatters  to  the  winds 
a  friendship  such  as  ours !  You  must  admit  that,  devoted  as 
I  am  to  my  children — more  even  perhaps  than  you  to  your 
Gaston — a  mother's  love  has  something  expansive  about  it 
which  does  not  allow  it  to  steal  from  other  affections,  or  inter- 
fere with  the  claims  of  friendship.  I  miss  your  letters,  I 
long  for  a  sight  of  your  dear,  sweet  face.  Oh !  Louise,  my 
heart  has  only  conjecture  to  feed  upon ! 

As  regards  ourselves,  I  will  try  and  tell  you  everything 
as  briefly  as  possible. 

On  reading  over  again  your  last  letter  but  one,  I  find  some 
stinging  comments  on  our  political  situation.  You  mocked 
at  us  for  keeping  the  post  in  the  Audit  Department,  which, 
as  well  as  the  title  of  Count,  Louis  owed  to  the  favor  of 
Charles  X.  But  I  should  like  to  know,  please,  how  it  would 
be  possible  out  of  an  income  of  forty  thousand  livres,  thirty 
thousand  of  which  go  with  the  entail,  to  give  a  suitable  start 
in  life  to  Athe*nai's  and  my  poor  little  beggar  Rene.  Was  it 
not  a  duty  to  live  on  our  salary  and  prudently  allow  the  in- 
come of  the  estate  to  accumulate?  In  this  way  we  shall,  in 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  331 

twenty  years,  have  put  together  about  six  hundred  thousand 
francs,  which  Mall  provide  portions  for  my  daughter  and 
for  Kene,  whom  I  destine  for  the  navy.  The  poor  little  chap 
will  have  an  income  of  ten  thousand  livres,  and  perhaps  we 
may  contrive  to  leave  him  in  cash  enough  to  bring  his  por- 
tion up  to  the  amount  of  his  sister's. 

When  he  is  Captain,  my  beggar  will  be  able  to  make  a 
wealthy  marriage,  and  take  a  position  in  society  as  good 
as  his  elder  brother's. 

These  considerations  of  prudence  determined  the  accept- 
ance in  our  family  of  the  new  order  of  things.  The  new 
dynasty,  as  was  natural,  raised  Louis  to  the  Peerage  and 
made  him  a  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  oath 
once  taken,  1'Estorade  could  not  be  half-hearted  in  his  ser- 
vices, and  he  has  since  then  made  himself  very  useful  in 
the  Chamber.  The  position  he  has  now  attained  is  one  in 
which  he  can  rest  upon  his  oars  till  the  end  of  his  days.  He 
has  a  good  deal  of  adroitness  in  business  matters;  and  though 
he  can  hardly  be  called  an  orator,  speaks  pleasantly  and 
fluently,  which  is  all  that  is  necessary  in  politics.  His 
shrewdness  and  the  extent  of  his  information  in  all  matters 
of  government  and  administration  are  fully  appreciated, 
and  all  parties  consider  him  indispensable.  I  may  tell  you 
that  he  was  recently  offered  an  embassy,  but  I  would  not  let 
him  accept  it.  I  am  tied  to  Paris  by  the  education  of  Ar- 
mand  and  Athenais — who  are  now  respectively  thirteen  and 
nearly  eleven — and  I  don't  intend  leaving  till  little  Kene  has 
completed  his,  which  is  just  beginning. 

We  could  not  have  remained  faithful  to  the  elder  branch 
of  the  dynasty  and  returned  to  our  country  life  without  al- 
lowing the  education  and  prospects  of  the  three  children  to 
suffer.  A  mother,  my  sweet,  is  hardly  called  on  to  be  a 
Decius,  especially  at  a  time  when  the  type  is  rare.  In  fifteen 
years  from  now,  1'Estorade  will  be  able  to  retire  to  La  Cram- 
pade  on  a  good  pension,  having  found  a  place  as  referen- 
rlary  for  Armand  in  the  Audit  Department. 

..4s  for  Eene,  the  navy  will  doubtless  make  a  diplomatist 


332  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

of  him.    The  little  rogue,  at  seven  years  old,  has  all  the  cun- 
ning of  an  old  Cardinal. 

Oh!  Louise,  I  am  indeed  a  happy  mother.  My  children 
are  an  endless  source  of  joy  to  me. 

Senza  brama  sicura  ricchezza. 

Armand  is  a  day  scholar  at  Henri  IV.'s  school.  I  made 
up  my  mind  he  should  have  a  public-school  training,  yet 
could  not  reconcile  myself  to  the  thought  of  parting  with 
him;  so  I  compromised,  as  the  Due  d'Orleans  did  before  he 
became — or  in  order  that  he  might  become — Louis  Philippe. 
Every  morning  Lucas,  the  old  servant  whom  you  will  remem- 
ber, takes  Armand  to  school  in  time  for  the  first  lesson, 
and  brings  him  home  again  at  half-past  four.  In  the  house 
we  have  a  private  tutor,  an  admirable  scholar,  who  helps 
Armand  with  his  work  in  the  evenings,  and  calls  him  in  the 
morning  at  the  school  hour.  Lucas  takes  him  some  lunch 
during  the  play  hour  at  midday.  In  this  way  I  am  with 
mj  b°y  at  dinner  and  until  he  goes  to  bed  at  night,  and  I 
see  him  off  in  the  morning. 

Armand  is  the  same  charming  little  fellow,  full  of  feel- 
ing and  unselfish  impulse,  whom  you  loved;  and  his  tutor 
is  quite  pleased  with  him.  I  still  have  Nai's  and  the  baby — 
two  restless  little  mortals — but  I  am  quite  as  much  a  child 
as  they  are.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  lose  the  darlings' 
sweet  caresses.  I  could  not  live  without  the  feeling  that  at 
any  moment  I  can  fly  to  Armand's  bedside  and  watch  his 
slumbers  or  snatch  a  kiss. 

Yet  home  education  is  not  without  its  drawbacks,  to  which 
I  am  fully  alive.  Society,  like  nature,  is  a  jealous  power, 
and  will  not  have  her  rights  encroached  on,  or  her  system 
set  at  naught.  Thus,  children  who  are  brought  up  at  home 
are  exposed  too  early  to  the  fire  of  the  world;  they  see  its 
passions  and  become  at  home  in  its  subterfuges.  The  finer 
distinctions,  which  regulate  the  conduct  of  matured  men 
and  women,  elude  their  perceptions,  and  they  take  feeling 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  333 

and  passion  for  their  guide  instead  of  subordinating  those 
to  the  code  of  society;  whilst  the  gay  trappings  and  tinsel 
which  attract  so  much  of  the  world's  favor  blind  them  to  the 
importance  of  the  more  sober  virtues.  A  child  of  fifteen 
with  the  assurance  of  a  man  of  the  world  is  a  thing  against 
all  nature ;  at  twenty-five  he  will  be  prematurely  old,  and  his 
precocious  knowledge  only  unfits  him  for  the  genuine  study 
on  which  all  solid  ability  must  rest.  Life  in  society  is  one 
long  comedy,  and  those  who  take  part  in  it,  like  other  actors, 
reflect  back  impressions  which  never  penetrate  below  the  sur- 
face. A  mother,  therefore,  who  wishes  not  to  part  from  her 
children,  must  resolutely  determine  that  they  shall  not  enter 
the  gay  world;  she  must  have  courage  to  resist  their  in- 
clinations, as  well  as  her  own,  and  keep  them  in  the  back- 
ground. Cornelia  had  to  keep  her  jewels  under  lock  and 
key.  Shall  I  do  less  for  the  children  who  are  all  the  world 
to  me? 

Now  that  I  am  thirty,  the  heat  of  the  day  is  over,  the 
hardest  bit  of  the  road  lies  behind  me.  In  a  few  years  I 
shall  be  an  old  woman,  and  the  sense  of  duty  done  is  an  im- 
mense encouragement.  It  would  almost  seem  as  though  my 
trio  can  read  my  thoughts  and  shape  themselves  accord- 
ingly. A  mysterious  bond  of  sympathy  unites  me  to  these 
children  who  have  never  left  my  side.  If  they  knew  the 
blank  in  my  life  which  they  have  to  fill,  they  could  not  be 
more  lavish  of  the  solace  they  bring. 

Armand,  who  was  dull  and  dreamy  during  his  first  three 
years  at  school,  and  caused  me  some  uneasiness,  has  made  a 
sudden  start.  Doubtless  he  realized,  in  a  way  most  children 
never  do,  the  aim  of  all  this  preparatory  work,  which  is  to 
sharpen  the  intelligence,  to  get  them  into  habits  of  applica- 
tion, and  accustom  them  to  that  fundamental  principle  of 
all  society — obedience.  My  dear,  a  few  days  ago  I  had  the 
proud  joy  of  seeing  Armand  crowned  at  the  great  inter- 
scholastic  competition  in  the  crowded  Sorbonne,  when  your 
godson  received  the  first  prize  for  translation.  At  the  school 
distribution  he  got  two  first  prizes — one  for  verse,  and  one 


334  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

for  an  essay.  I  went  quite  white  when  his  name  was  called 
out,  and  longed  to  shout  aloud,  "I  am  his  mother!"  Little 
Na'is  squeezed  my  hand  till  it  hurt,  if  at  such  a  moment  it 
were  possible  to  feel  pain.  Ah !  Louise,  a  day  like  this  might 
outweigh  many  a  dream  of  love! 

His  brother's  triumphs  have  spurred  on  little  Eene,  who 
wants  to  go  to  school  too.  Sometimes  the  three  children 
make  such  a  racket,  shouting  and  rushing  about  the  house, 
that  I  wonder  how  my  head  stands  it.  I  am  always  with 
them;  no  one  else,  not  even  Mary,  is  allowed  to  take  care  of 
my  children.  But  the  calling  of  a  mother,  if  taxing,  has  so 
many  compensating  joys !  To  see  a  child  leave  its  play  and 
run  to  hug  one,  out  of  the  fulness  of  its  heart,  what  could  be 
sweeter  ? 

Then  it  is  only  in  being  constantly  with  them  that  one 
can  study  their  characters.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  mother,  and 
one  which  she  can  depute  to  no  hired  teacher,  to  decipher 
the  tastes,  temper,  and  natural  aptitudes  of  her  children  from 
their  infancy.  All  home-bred  children  are  distinguished  by 
ease  of  manner  and  tact,  two  acquired  qualities  which  may 
go  far  to  supply  the  lack  of  natural  ability,  whereas  no 
natural  ability  can  atone  for  the  loss  of  this  early  training. 
I  have  already  learned  to  discriminate  this  difference  of  tone 
in  the  men  whom  I  meet  in  society,  and  to  trace  the  hand 
of  a  woman  in  the  formation  of  a  young  man's  manners. 
How  could  any  woman  defraud  her  children  of  such  a  pos- 
session? You  see  what  rewards  attend  the  performance  of 
my  tasks ! 

Arnand,  I  feel  certain,  will  make  an  admirable  judge, 
the  most  upright  of  public  servants,  the  most  devoted  of 
deputies.  And  where  would  you  find  a  sailor  bolder,  more 
adventurous,  more  astute  than  my  Eene  will  be  a  few  years 
hence?  The  little  rascal  ha?  already  an  iron  will,  whatever 
he  wants  he  manages  to  get;  he  will  try  a  thousand  cir- 
cuitous ways  to  reach  his  end,  and  if  not  successful  then,  will 
devise  a  thousand  and  first.  Where  dear  Armand  quietly 
resigns  himself  and  tries  to  get  at  the  reason  of  things, 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  335 

Kene  will  storm,  and  strive,  and  puzzle,  chattering  all  the 
time,  till  at  last  he  finds  some  chink  in  the  obstacle ;  if  there 
is  room  for  the  blade  of  a  knife  to  pass,  his  little  carriage 
will  ride  through  in  triumph. 

And  Na'is?  Nai's  is  so  completely  a  second  self  that  I 
can  hardly  realize  her  as  distinct  from  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  What  a  darling  she  is,  and  how  I  love  to  make  a  little 
lady  of  her,  to  dress  her  curly  hair,  tender  thoughts  mingling 
the  while  with  every  touch  !  I  must  have  her  happy ;  I  shall 
only  give  her  to  the  man  who  loves  her  and  whom  she  loves. 
But,  Heavens !  when  I  let  her  put  on  her  little  ornaments, 
or  pass  a  cherry-colored  ribbon  through  her  hair,  or  fasten 
the  shoes  on  her  tiny  feet,  a  sickening  thought  comes  over 
me.  How  can  one  order  the  destiny  of  a  girl?  Who  can 
say  that  she  will  not  love  a  scoundrel  or  some  man  who  is 
indifferent  to  her  ?  Tears  often  spring  to  my  eyes  as  I  watch 
her.  This  lovely  creature,  this  flower,  this  rosebud  which 
has  blossomed  in  one's  heart,  to  be  handed  over  to  a  man 
who  will  tear  it  from  the  stem  and  leave  it  bare !  Louise,  it 
is  you — you,  who  in  two  years  have  not  written  three -words 
to  tell  me  of  your  welfare — it  is  you  who  have  recalled  to 
my  mind  the  terrible  possibilities  of  marriage,  so  full  of 
anguish  for  a  mother  wrapped  up,  as  I  am,  in  her  child. 
Farewell  now,  for  in  truth  you  don't  deserve  my  friendship, 
and  I  hardly  know  how  to  write.  Oh!  answer  me,  dear 
Louise. 


LII 

MME.  GASTON  TO  MME.  DE  I/ESTORADE 

The  Chalet. 

So,  AFTER  a  silence  of  two  years,  you  are  pricked  by  curiosity, 
and  want  to  know  why  I  have  not  written.  My  dear  Kenee, 
there  are  no  words,  no  images,  no  language  to  express  my 
happiness.  That  we  have  strength  to  bear  it  sums  up  all 
I  could  say.  It  costs  us  no  effort,  for  we  are  in  perfect 


336  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

sympathy.  The  whole  two  years  have  known  no  note  of  dis- 
cord in  the  harmony,  no  jarring  word  in  the  interchange  of 
feeling,  no  shade  of  difference  in  our  lightest  wish.  Not 
one  in  this  long  succession  of  days  has  failed  to  bear  its  own 
peculiar  fruit;  not  a  moment  has  passed  without  being  en- 
riched by  the  play  of  fancy.  So  far  are  we  from  dreading 
the  canker  of  monotony  in  our  life,  that  our  only  fear  is  lest 
it  should  not  be  long  enough  to  contain  all  the  poetic  crea- 
tions of  a  love  as  rich  and  varied  in  its  development  as 
Mature  herself.  Of  disappointment  not  a  trace!  We  find 
more  pleasure  in  being  together  than  on  the  first  day,  and  each 
hour  as  it  goes  by  discloses  fresh  reason  for  our  love.  Every 
day  as  we  take  our  evening  stroll  after  dinner,  we  tell  each 
other  that  we  really  must  go  and  see  what  is  doing  in  Paris, 
just  as  one  might  talk  of  going  to  Switzerland. 

"Only  think,"  Gaston  will  exclaim,  "such  and  such  a 
boulevard  is  being  made,  the  Madeleine  is  finished.  We 
ought  to  see  it.  Let  us  go  to-morrow." 

And  to-morrow  comes,  and  we  are  in  no  hurry  to  get  up, 
and  we  breakfast  in  our  bedroom.  Then  midday  is  on  us, 
and  it  is  too  hot;  a  siesta  seems  appropriate.  Then  Gaston 
wishes  to  look  at  me,  and  he  gazes  on  my  face  as  though  it 
were  a  picture,  losing  himself  in  this  contemplation,  which, 
as  you  may  suppose,  is  not  one-sided.  Tears  rise  to  the  eyes 
of  both  as  we  think  of  our  love  and  tremble.  I  am  still 
the  mistress,  pretending,  that  is,  to  give  less  than  I  receive, 
and  I  revel  in  this  deception.  To  a  woman  what  can  be 
sweeter  than  to  see  passion  ever  held  in  check  by  tenderness, 
and  the  man  who  is  her  master  stayed,  like  a  timid  suitor,  by 
a  word  from  her,  within  the  limits  that  she  chooses? 

You  asked  me  to  describe  him ;  but,  Eenee,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible to  make  a  portrait  of  the  man  we  love.  How  could 
the  heart  be  kept  out  of  the  work?  Besides,  to  be  frank 
between  ourselves,  we  may  admit  that  one  of  the  dire  ef- 
fects of  civilization  on  our  manners  is  to  make  of  man  in 
society  a  being  so  utterly  different  from  the  natural  man 
of  strong  feeling,  that  sometimes  not  a  single  point  of  like- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  337 

ness  can  be  found  between  these  two  aspects  of  the  same 
person.  The  man  who  falls  into  the  most  graceful  operatic 
poses,  as  he  pours  sweet  nothings  into  your  ear  by  the  fire 
at  night,  ma}7  be  entirely  destitute  of  those  more  intimate 
charms  which  a  woman  values.  On  the  other  hand,  an  ugly^ 
boorish,  badly-dressed  figure  may  mark  a  man  endowed  with 
the  very  genius  of  love,  and  who  has  a  perfect  mastery  over 
situations  which  might  baffle  even  us  with  our  superficial 
graces.  A  man  whose  conventional  aspect  accords  with  his  real 
nature,  who,  in  the  intimacy  of  wedded  love,  possesses  that 
inborn  grace  which  can  be  neither  given  nor  acquired,  but 
which  Greek  art  has  embodied  in  statuary,  that  careless  in- 
nocence of  the  ancient  poets  whioh.  even  in  frank  undress, 
seems  to  clothe  the  soul  as  with  a  veil  of  modesty — this  is 
our  ideal,  born  of  our  own  conceptions,  and  linked  with  the 
universal  harmony  which  seems  to  be  the  reality  underlying 
all  created  things.  To  find  this  ideal  in  life  is  the  problem 
which  haunts  the  imagination  of  every  woman — in  Gaston  I 
have  found  it. 

Ah !  dear,  I  did  not  know  what  love  could  be,  united  to 
youth,  talent,  and  beauty.  Gaston  has  no  affectations,  he 
moves  with  an  instinctive  and  unstudied  grace.  When  we 
walk  alone  together  in  the  woods,  his  arm  round  my  waist, 
mine  resting  on  his  shoulder,  body  fitting  to  body,  and  head 
touching  head,  our  step  is  so  even,  uniform,  and  gentle,  that 
those  who  see  us  pass  by  night  take  the  vision  for  a  single 
figure  gliding  over  the  graveled  walks,  like  one  of  Homer's 
immortals.  A  like  harmony  exists  in  our  desires,  our 
thoughts,  our  words.  More  than  once  on  some  evening  when 
a  passing  shower  has  left  the  leaves  glistening  and  the  moist 
grass  bright  with  a  more  vivid  green,  it  has  chanced  that  we 
ended  our  walk  without  uttering  a  word,  as  we  listened  to 
the  patter  of  falling  drops  and  feasted  our  eyes  on  the  scarlet 
sunset,  flaring  on  the  hilltops  or  dyeing  with  a  warmer  tone 
the  gray  of  the  tree  trunks. 

Beyond  a  doubt  our  thoughts  then  rose  to  Heaven  in  silent 
prayer,  pleading,  as  it  were,  for  our  happiness.  At  times 


338  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

a  cry  would  escape  us  at  the  moment  when  some  sudden 
bend  on  the  path  opened  up  fresh  beauties.  What  words  can 
tell  how  honey-sweet,  how  full  of  meaning,  is  a  kiss  half- 
timidly  exchanged  within  the  sanctuary  of  nature — it  is  as 
though  God  had  created  us  to  worship  in  this  fashion. 

And  we  return  home,  each  more  deeply  in  love  than  ever. 

A  love  so  passionate  between  old  married  people  would 
be  an  outrage  on  society  in  Paris;  only  in  the  heart  of  the 
woods,  like  lovers,  can  we  give  scope  to  it. 

To  come  to  particulars,  Gaston  is  of  middle  height — the 
height  proper  to  all  men  of  purpose.  Neither  stout  nor  thin, 
his  figure  is  admirably  made,  with  ample  fulness  in  the  pro- 
portions, while  every  motion  is  agile;  he  leaps  a  ditch  with 
the  easy  grace  of  a  wild  animal.  Whatever  his  attitude,  he 
seems  to  have  an  instinctive  sense  of  balance,  and  this  is 
very  rare  in  men  who  are  given  to  thought.  Though  a  dark 
man,  he  has  an  extraordinarily  fair  complexion ;  his  jet-black 
hair  contrasts  finely  with  the  lustreless  tints  of  the  neck  and 
forehead.  He  has  the  tragic  head  of  Louis  XIII.  His  mous- 
tache and  tuft  have  been  allowed  to  grow,  but  I  made  him 
shave  the  whiskers  and  beard,  which  were  getting  too  com- 
mon. An  honorable  poverty  has  been  his  safeguard,  and 
handed  him  over  to  me,  unsoiled  by  the  loose  life  which 
ruins  so  many  young  men.  His  teeth  are  magnificent,  and  he 
has  a  constitution  of  iron.  His  keen  blue  eyes,  for  me  full 
of  tenderness,  will  flash  like  lightning  at  any  rousing  thought. 

Like  all  men  of  strong  character  and  powerful  mind,  he 
has  an  admirable  temper;  its  evenness  would  surprise  you, 
as  it  did  me.  I  have  listened  to  the  tale  of  many  a  woman's 
home  troubles;  I  ha.ve  heard  of  the  moods  and  depression 
of  men  dissatisfied  with  themselves,  who  either  won't  get 
old  or  age  ungracefully,  men  who  carry  about  through  life 
the  rankling  memory  of  some  youthful  excess,  whose  veins 
run  poison  and  whose  eyes  are  never  frankly  happy,  men 
who  cloak  suspicion  under  bad  temper,  and  make  their 
women  pay  for  an  hour's  peace  by  a  morning  of  annoyance, 
who  take  vengeance  on  us  for  a  beauty  which  is  hateful  to 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  339 

them  because  they  have  ceased  themselves  to  be  attractive, — 
all  these  are  horrors  unknown  to  youth.  They  are  the  pen- 
alty of  unequal  unions.  Oh!  my  dear,  whatever  you  do, 
don't  marry  Athenai's  to  an  old  man ! 

But  his  smile — how  I  feast  on  it !  A  smile  which  is  always 
there,  yet  always  fresh  through  the  play  of  subtle  fancy,  a 
speaking  smile  which  makes  of  the  lips  a  storehouse  for 
thoughts  of  love  and  unspoken  gratitude,  a  smile  which  links 
present  joys  to  past.  For  nothing  is  allowed  to  drop  out  of 
our  common  life.  The  smallest  works  of  nature  have  become 
part  and  parcel  of  our  joy.  In  these  delightful  woods  every- 
thing is  alive  and  eloquent  of  ourselves.  An  old  moss-grown 
oak,  near  the  woodsman's  house  on  the  roadside,  reminds 
us  how  we  sat  there,  wearied,  under  its  shade,  while  Gaston 
taught  me  about  the  mosses  at  our  feet  and  told  me  their 
story,  till,  gradually  ascending  from  science  to  science,  we 
touched  the  very  confines  of  creation. 

There  is  something  so  kindred  in  our  minds  that  they 
seem  to  me  like  two  editions  of  the  same  book.  You  see  what 
a  literary  tendency  I  have  developed !  We  both  have  the 
habit,  or  the  gift,  of  looking  at  every  subject  broadly,  of  tak- 
ing in  all  its  points  of  view,  and  the  proof  we  are  constantly 
giving  ourselves  of  the  singleness  of  our  inward  vision  is  an 
ever-new  pleasure.  We  have  actually  come  to  look  on  this 
community  of  mind  as  a  pledge  of  love;  and  if  it  ever 
failed  us,  it  would  mean  as  much  to  us  as  would  a  breach 
of  fidelity  in  an  ordinary  home. 

My  life,  full  as  it  is  of  pleasures,  would  seem  to  you,  never- 
theless, extremely  laborious.  To  begin  with,  my  dear,  you  must 
know  that  Louise- Armande-Marie  de  Chaulieu  does  her  own 
room.  I  could  not  bear  that  a  hired  menial,  some  woman  or 
girl  from  the  outside,  should  become  initiated — literary 
touch  again ! — into  the  secrets  of  my  bedroom.  The  veriest 
trifles  connected  with  the  worship  of  my  heart  partake  of  its 
sacred  character.  This  is  not  jealousy;  it  is  self-respect. 
Thus  my  room  is  done  out  with  all  the  care  a  young  girl 
in  love  bestows  on  her  person,  and  with  the  precision  of 


340  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

an  old  maid.  My  dressing-room  is  no  chaos  of  litter ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  makes  a  charming  boudoir.  My  keen  eye  has 
foreseen  all  contingencies.  At  whatever  hour  the  lord  and 
master  enters,  he  will  find  nothing  to  distress,  surprise,  or 
shock  him;  he  is  greeted  by  flowers,  scents,  and  everything 
that  can  please  the  eye. 

I  get  up  in  the  early  dawn,  while  he  is  still  sleeping,  and, 
without  disturbing  him,  pass  into  the  dressing-room,  where, 
profiting  by  my  mother's  experience,.  I  remove  the  traces  of 
sleep  by  bathing  in  cold  water.  For  during  sleep  the  skin, 
being  less  active,  does  not  perform  its  functions  adequately; 
it  becomes  warm  and  covered  with  a  sort  of  mist  or  atmos- 
phere of  sticky  matter,  visible  to  the  eye.  From  a  sponge- 
bath  a  woman  issues  forth  ten  years  younger,  and  this,  per- 
haps, is  the  interpretation  of  the  myth  of  Venus  rising  from 
the  sea.  So  the  cold  water  restores  to  me  the  saucy  charm  of 
dawn,  and,  having  combed  and  scented  my  hair  and  made  a 
most  fastidious  toilet,  I  glide  back,  snake-like,  in  order  that 
my  master  may  find  me,  dainty  as  a  spring  morning,  at  his 
wakening.  He  is  charmed  with  this  freshness,  as  of  a  newly- 
opened  flower,  without  having  the  least  idea  how  it  is  pro- 
duced. 

The  regular  toilet  of  the  day  is  a  matter  for  my  maid, 
and  this  takes  place  later  in  a  larger  room,  set  aside  for  the 
purpose.  As  you  may  suppose,  there  is  also  a  toilet  for 
going  to  bed.  Three  times  a  day,  you  ,see,  or  it  may  be  four, 
do  I  array  myself  for  the  delight  of  my  husband;  which, 
again,  dear  one,  is  suggestive  of  certain  ancient  myths. 

But  our  work  is  not  all  play.  We  take  a  great  deal  of  in- 
terest in  our  flowers,  in  the  beauties  of  the  hothouse,  and  in 
our  trees.  We  give  ourselves  in  all  seriousness  to  horticul- 
ture, and  embosom  the  chalet  in  flowers,  of  which  we  are 
passionately  fond.  Our  lawns  are  always  green,  our  shrub- 
beries as  well  tended  as  those  of  a  millionaire.  And  noth- 
ing, I  assure  you,  can  match  the  beauty  of  our  walled  garden. 
We  are  regular  gluttons  over  our  fruit,  and  watch  with  ten- 
der interest  our  Montreuil  peaches,  our  hotbeds,  our  laden 
trellises,  and  pyramidal  pear-trees. 


LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES  341 

But  lest  these  rural  pursuits  should  fail  to  satisfy  my  be- 
loved's  mind,  I  have  advised  him  to  finish,  in  the  quiet  of 
this  retreat,  some  plays  which  were  begun  in  his  starva- 
tion days,  and  which  are  really  very  fine.  This  is  the  only 
kind  of  literary  work  which  can  be  done  in  odd  moments, 
for  it  requires  long  intervals  of  reflection,  and  does  not  de- 
mand the  elaborate  pruning  essential  to  a  finished  style.  One 
can't  make  a  task-work  of  dialogue;  there  must  be  biting 
touches,  summings-up,  and  flashes  of  wit,  which  are  the 
blossoms  of  the  mind,  and  come  rather  by  inspiration  than 
reflection.  This  sort  of  intellectual  sport  is  very  much  in  my 
line.  I  assist  Gaston  in  his  work,  and  in  this  way  manage 
to  accompany  him  even  in  the  boldest  flights  of  his  imagina- 
tion. Do  you  see  now  how  it  is  that  my  winter  evenings 
never  drag? 

Our  servants  have  such  an  easy  time,  that  never  once 
since  we  were  married  have  we  had  to  reprimand  any  of 
them.  When  questioned  about  us,  they  have  had  wit  enough 
to  draw  on  their  imaginations,  and  have  given  us  out  as  the 
companion  and  secretary  of  a  lady  and  gentleman  supposed 
to  be  traveling.  They  never  go  out  without  asking  permis- 
sion, which  they  know  will  not  be  refused;  they  are  con- 
tented too,  and  see  plainly  that  it  will  be  their  own  fault  if 
there  is  a  change  for  the  worse.  The  gardeners  are  allowed 
to  sell  the  surplus  of  our  fruit  and  vegetables.  The  dairy- 
maid does  the  same  with  the  milk,  the  cream,  and  the  fresh 
butter,  on  condition  that  the  best  of  the  produce  is  reserved 
for  us.  They  are  well  pleased  with  their  profits,  and  we  are 
delighted  with  an  abundance  which  no  money  and  no  in- 
genuity can  procure  in  that  terrible  Paris,  where  it  costs  a 
hundred  francs  to  produce  a  single  fine  peach. 

All  this  is  not  without  its  meaning,  my  dear.  I  wish 
to  fill  the  place  of  society  to  my  husband;  now  society  is 
amusing,  and  therefore  his  solitude  must  not  be  allowed  to 
pall  on  him.  I  believed  myself  jealous  in  the  old  days,  when 
I  merely  allowed  myself  to  be  loved;  now  I  know  real  jeal- 
ousy, the  jealousy  of  the  lover.  A  single  indifferent  glance 


342  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

unnerves  me.  From  time  to  time  I  say  to  myself,  "Suppose 
he  ceased  to  love  me !"  And  a  shudder  goes  through  me. 
I  tremble  before  him,  as  the  Christian  before  his  God. 

Alas !  Eenee,  I  am  still  without  a  child.  The  time  will 
surely  come — it  must  come — when  our  hermitage  will  need 
a  father's  and  a  mother's  care  to  brighten  it,  when  we  shall 
both  pine  to  see  the  little  frocks  and  pelisses,  the  brown  or 
golden  heads,  leaping,  running  through  our  shrubberies  and 
flowery  paths.  Oh !  it  is  a  cruel  jest  of  Nature's,  a  flower- 
ing tree  that  bears  no  fruit.  The  thought  of  your  lovely 
children  goes  through  me  like  a  knife.  My  life  has  grown 
narrower,  while  yours  has  expanded  and  shed  its  rays  afar. 
The  passion  of  love  is  essentially  selfish,  while  motherhood 
widens  the  circle  of  our  feelings.  How  well  I  felt  this  dif- 
ference when  I  read  your  kind,  tender  letter!  To  see  you 
thus  living  in  three  hearts  roused  my  envy.  Yes,  you  are 
happy;  you  have  had  wisdom  to  obey  the  laws  of  social  life, 
whilst  I  stand  outside,  an  alien. 

Children,  dear  and  loving  children,  can  alone  console  a 
woman  for  the  loss  of  her  beauty.  I  shall  soon  be  thirty, 
and  at  that  age  the  dirge  within  begins.  What  though  I  am 
still  beautiful,  the  limits  of  my  woman's  reign  are  none  the 
less  in  sight.  When  they  are  reached,  what  then?  I  shall 
be  forty  before  he  is;  I  shall  be  old  while  he  is  still  young. 
When  this  thought  goes  to  my  heart,  I  lie  at  his  feet  for  an 
hour  at  a  time,  making  him  swear  to  tell  me  instantly  if  ever 
he  feels  his  love  diminishing. 

But  he  is  a  child.  He  swears,  as  though  the  mere  sug- 
gestion were  an  absurdity,  and  he  is  so  beautiful  that — 
Renee,  you  understand — I  believe  him. 

Good-bye,  sweet  one.  Shall  we  ever  again  let  years  pass 
without  writing?  Happiness  is  a  monotonous  theme,  and 
that  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why,  to  souls  who  love,  Dante 
appears  even  greater  in  the  Paradiso  than  in  the  Inferno. 
I  am  not  Dante ;  I  am  only  your  friend,  and  I  don't  want  to 
bore  you.  You  can  write,  for  in  your  children  you  have  an 
ever-growing,  ever-varying  source  of  happiness,  while  mine 
•  No  more  of  this.  A  thousand  loves. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  343 

LIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MME.  GASTON" 

MY  DEAR  LOUISE, — I  have  read  and  re-read  your  letter,  and 
the  more  deeply  I  enter  into  its  spirit,  the  clearer  does  it 
become  to  me  that  it  is  the  letter,  not  of  a  woman,  but  of  a 
child.  You  are  the  same  old  Louise,  and  you  forget,  what 
I  used  to  repeat  over  and  over  again  to  you,  that  the  pas- 
sion of  love  belongs  rightly  to  a  state  of  nature,  and  has  only 
been  purloined  by  civilization.  So  fleeting  is  its  character, 
that  the  resources  of  society  are  powerless  to  modify  its 
primitive  condition,  and  it  becomes  the  effort  of  all  noble 
minds  to  make  a  man  of  the  infant  Cupid.  But,  as  you  your- 
self admit,  such  love  ceases  to  be  natural. 

Society,  my  dear,  abhors  sterility;  by  substituting  a  last- 
ing sentiment  for  the  mere  passing  frenzy  of  nature,  it  has 
succeeded  in  creating  that  greatest  of  all  human  inventions — 
the  family,,  which  is  the  enduring  basis  of  all  organized 
society.  To  the  accomplishment  of  this  end,  it  has  sacrificed 
the  individual,  man  as  well  as  woman;  for  we  must  not 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  a  married  man  devotes  his 
energy,  his  power,  and  all  his  possessions  to  his  wife.  Is  it 
not  she  who  reaps  the  benefit  of  all  his  care?  For  whom, 
if  not  for  her,  are  the  luxury  and  wealth,  the  position  and 
distinction,  the  comfort  and  the  gaiety  of  the  home? 

Oh !  my  sweet,  once  again  you  have  taken  the  wrong 
turning  in  life.  To  be  adored  is  a  young  girl's  dream,  which 
may  survive  a  few  springtimes ;  it  cannot  be  that  of  the  ma- 
ture woman,  the  wife  and  mother.  To  a  woman's  vanity  it  is, 
perhaps,  enough  to  know  that  she  can  command  adoration 
if  she  likes.  If  you  would  live  the  life  of  a  wife  and  mother, 
return,  I  beg  of  you,  to  Paris.  Let  me  repeat  my  warn- 
ing: It  is  not  misfortune  which  you  have  to  dread,  as  others 
do — it  is  happiness. 

Listen  to  me,  my  child!    It  is  the  simple  things  of  life— 


344  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

bread,  air,  silence — of  which  we  do  not  tire;  they  have  no 
piquancy  which  can  create  distaste;  it  is  highly-flavored 
dishes  which  irritate  the  palate,  and  in  the  end  exhaust  it. 
Were  it  possible  that  I  should  to-day  be  loved  by  a  man 
for  whom  I  could  conceive  a  passion,  such  as  yours  for  Gas- 
ton,  I  would  still  cling  to  the  duties  and  the  children,  who 
axe  so  dear  to  me.  To  a  woman's  heart  the  feelings  of  a 
mother  are  among  the  simple,  natural,  fruitful,  and  inex- 
haustible things  of  life.  I  can  recall  the  day,  now  nearly 
fourteen  years  ago,  when  I  embarked  on  a  life  of  self-sacri- 
fice with  the  despair  of  a  shipwrecked  mariner  clinging  to 
the  mast  of  his  vessel;  now,  as  I  invoke  the  memory  of  past 
years,  I  feel  that  I  would  make  the  same  choice  again.  No 
other  guiding  principle  is  so  safe,  or  leads  to  such  rich  re- 
ward. The  spectacle  of  your  life,  which,  for  all  the  romance 
and  poetry  with  which  you  invest  it,  still  remains  based  on 
nothing  but  a  ruthless  selfishness,  has  helped  to  strengthen 
my  convictions.  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  spealc  to  you 
in  this  way;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  once  more  plead- 
ing with  you  when  I  found  that  your  happiness  had  been 
proof  against  the  most  searching  of  all  trials. 

And  one  more  point  I  must  urge  on  you,  suggested  by 
my  meditations  on  your  retirement.  Life,  whether  of  the 
body  or  the  heart,  consists  in  certain  balanced  movements. 
Any  excess  introduced  into  the  working  of  this  routine  gives 
rise  either  to  pain  or  to  pleasure,  both  of  which  are  a  more 
fever  of  the  soul,  bound  to  be  fugitive  because  nature  is  not 
so  framed  as  to  support  it  long.  But  to  make  of  life  one  long 
excess  is  surely  to  choose  sickness  for  one's  portion.  You 
are  sick  because  you  maintain  at  the  temperature  of  passion 
a  feeling  which  marriage  ought  to  convert  into  a  steadying, 
purifying  influence. 

Yes,  my  sweet,  I  see  it  clearly  now;  the  glory  of  a  home 
consists  in  this  very  calm,  this  intimacy,  this  sharing  alike 
of  good  and  evil,  which  the  vulgar  ridicule.  How  noble  was 
the  reply  of  the  Duchesse  de  Sully,  the  wife  of  the  great 
Sullv,  to  some  one  who  remarked  that  her  husband,  for  all 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  345 

his  grave  exterior,  did  not  scruple  to  keep  a  mistress.  <rWhat 
of  that?"  she  said.  "I  represent  the  honor  of  the  house, 
and  should  decline  to  play  the  part  of  a  courtesan  there." 

But  you,  Louise,  who  are  naturally  more  passionate  than 
tender,  would  be  at  once  the  wife  and  the  mistress.  With 
the  soul  of  a  Heloise  and  the  passions  of  a  Saint  Theresa, 
you  slip  the  leash  on  all  your  impulses,  so  long  as  they  are 
sanctioned  by.  the  law ;  in  a  word,  you  degrade  the  marriage 
rite.  Surely  the  tables  are  turned.  The  reproaches  you 
once  heaped  on  me  for  immorally,  as  you  said,  seizing  the 
means  of  happiness  from  the  very  outset  of  my  wedded  life, 
might  be  directed  against  yourself  for  grasping  at  every- 
thing which  may  serve  your  passion.  What!  must  nature 
and  society  alike  be  in  bondage  to  your  caprice  ?  You  are  the 
old  Louise;  you  have  never  acquired  the  qualities  which 
ought  to  be  a  woman's ;  self-willed  and  unreasonable  as  a  girl, 
you  introduce  withal  into  your  love  the  keenest  and  most 
mercenary  of  calculations !  Are  you  sure  that,  after  all,  the 
price  you  ask  for  your  toilets  is  not  too  high?  All  these 
precautions  are  to  my  mind  very  suggestive  of  mistrust. 

Oh,  dear  Louise,  if  only  you  knew  the  sweetness  of  a 
mother's  efforts  to  discipline  herself  in  kindness  and  gentle- 
ness to  all  about  her !  My  proud,  self-sufficing  temper  grad- 
ually dissolved  into  a  soft  melancholy,  which  in  turn  has 
been  swallowed  up  by  those  delights  of  motherhood  which 
have  been  its  reward.  If  the  early  hours  were  toilsome,  the 
evening  will  be  tranquil  and  clear.  My  dread  is  lest  the  day 
of  your  life  should  take  the  opposite  course. 

When  I  had  read  your  letter  to  a  close,  I  prayed  God  to 
send  you  among  us  for  a  day,  that  you  might  see  what  family 
life  really  is,  and  learn  the  nature  of  those  joys,  which  are 
lasting  and  sweeter  than  tongue  can  tell,  because  they  are 
genuine,  simple,  and  natural.  But,  alas !.  what  chance  have 
I  with  the  best  of  arguments  against  a  fallacy  which  makes 
you  happy  ?  As  I  write  these  words,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears. 
I  had  felt  so  sure  that  some  months  of  honeymoon  would 
prove  a  surfeit  and  restore  you  to  reason.  But  I  see  that 


346  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

there  is  no  limit  to  your  appetite,  and  that,  having  killed  a 
man  who  loved  you,  you  will  not  cease  till  you  have  killed 
love  itself.  Farewell,  dear  misguided  friend.  I  am  in  de- 
spair that  the  letter  which  I  hoped  might  reconcile  you  to 
society  by  its  picture  of  my  happiness  should  have  brought 
forth  only  a  paean  of  selfishness.  Yes,  your  love  is  selfish; 
you  love  Gaston  far  less  for  himself  than  for  what  he  is  to 
you. 


LIV 

MME.    GASTON   TO    THE    COMTESSE    DE    I/ESTORADE 

May  20tf». 

,  calamity  has  come — no,  that  is  no  word  for  it — it 
has  burst  like  a  thunderbolt  over  your  poor  Louise.  You 
know  what  that  means;  calamity  for  me  is  doubt;  certainty 
would  be  death. 

The  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  had  finished  my  first 
toilet,  I  looked  everywhere  ior  Gaston  to  take  a  little  turn 
with  me  before  lunch,  but  in  vain.  I  went  to  the  stable,  and 
there  I  saw  his  mare  all  in  a  lather,  while  the  groom  was 
removing  the  foam  with  a  knife  before  rubbing  her  down. 

"Who  in  the  world  has  put  Fedelta  in  such  a  state?"  I 
asked. 

"Master,"  replied  the  lad. 

I  saw  the  mud  of  Paris  on  the  mare's  legs,  for  country 
mud  is  quite  different;  and  at  once  it  flashed  through  me, 
"He  has  been  to  Paris." 

This  thought  raised  a  swarm  of  others  in  my  heart,  and 
it  seemed  as  though  all  the  life  in  my  body  rushed  there. 
To  go  to  Paris  without  telling  me,  at  the  hour  when  I  leave 
him  alone,  to  hasten  there  and  back  at  such  speed  as  to  dis- 
tress Fedelta.  Suspicion  clutched  me  in  its  iron  grip,  till 
I  could  hardly  breathe.  I  walked  aside  a  few  steps  to  a  seat, 
where  I  tried  to  recover  my  self-command. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BFJDES  347 

Here  Gaston  found  me,  apparently  pale  and  fluttered,  for 
he  immediately  exclaimed,  "What  is  wrong?"  in  a  tone  of 
such  alarm,  that  I  rose  and  took  his  arm.  But  my  muscles 
refused  to  move,  and  I  was  forced  to  sit  down  again.  Then 
he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  carried  me  to  the  parlor  close 
by,  where  the  frightened  servants  pressed  after  us,  till  Gas- 
ton  motioned  them  away.  Once  left  to  ourselves,  I  refused 
to  speak,  but  was  able  to  reach  my  room,  where  I  shut  myself 
in,  to  weep  my  fill.  Gaston  remained  something  like  two 
hours  at  my  door,  listening  to  my  sobs  and  questioning  with 
angelic  patience  his  poor  darling,  who  made  no  response. 

At  last  I  told  him  that  I  would  see  him  when  my  eyes  were 
less  red  and  my  voice  was  steady  again. 

My  formal  words  drove  him  from  the  house.  But  by-  the 
time  I  had  bathed  my  eyes  in  iced  water  and  cooled  my 
face,  I  found  him  in  our  room,  the  door  into  which  was 
open,  though  I  had  heard  no  steps.  He  begged  me  to  tell 
him  what  was  wrong. 

"Xothing,"  I  said;  "I  saw  the  mud  of  Paris  on  Fedelta's 
trembling  legs;  it  seemed  strange  that  you  should  go  there 
without  telling  me;  but,  of  course,  you  are  free." 

"I  shall  punish  you  for  such  wicked  thoughts  by  not  giving 
any  explanation  till  to-inorrow,"  he  replied. 

"Look  at  me,"  I  said. 

My  eyes  met  his ;  deep  answered  to  deep.  No,  not  a  trace 
of  the  cloud  of  disloyalty  which,  rising  from  the  soul,  must 
dim  the  clearness  of  the  eye.  I  feigned  satisfaction,  though 
really  unconvinced.  It  is  not  women  only  who  can  lie  and 
dissemble ! 

The  whole  of  the  day  we  spent  together.  Ever  and  again, 
as  I  looked  at  him,  I  realized  how  fast  my  heart-strings  were 
bound  to  him.  How  I  trembled  and  fluttered  within  when, 
after  a  moment's  absence,  he  reappeared.  I  live  in  him,  not 
in  myself.  My  cruel  sufferings  gave  the  lie  to  your  unkind 
letter.  Did  I  ever  feel  my  life  thus  bound  up  in  the  noble 
Spaniard,  who  adored  me,  as  I  adore  this  heartless  boy?  I 
hate  that  mare !  Fool  that  I  was  to  keep  horses !  But  the 


348  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

next  thing  would  have  been  to  lame  Gaston  or  imprison  him 
in  the  cottage.  Wild  thoughts  like  these  filled  my  brain; 
you  see  how  near  I  was  to  madness !  If  love  be  not  the  cage, 
what  power  on  earth  can  hold  back  the  man  who  wants  to  be 
free? 

I  asked  him  point-blank,  "Do  I  bore  you  ?" 

"What  needless  torture  you  give  yourself !"  was  his  reply, 
while  he  looked  at  me  with  tender,,  pitying  eyes.  "Never 
have  I  loved  you  so  deeply." 

"If  that  is  true,  my  beloved,  let  me  sell  Fedelta,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Sell  her,  by  all  means !" 

The  reply  crushed  me.  Was  it  not  a  covert  taunt  at  my 
wealth  and  his  own  nothingness  in  the  house  ?  .  This  may 
never  have  occurred  to  him,  but  I  thought  it  had,  and  once 
more  I  left  him.  It  was  night,  and  I  would  go  to  bed. 

Oh!  Kenee,  to  be  alone  with  a  harrowing  thought  drives 
one  to  thoughts  of  death.  These  charming  gardens,  the 
starry  night,  the  cool  air,  laden  with  incense  from  our  wealth 
of  flowers,  our  valley,  our  hills — all  seemed  to  me  gloomy, 
black,  and  desolate.  It  was  as  though  I  lay  at  the  foot  of 
a  precipice,  surrounded  by  serpents  and  poisonous  plants, 
and  saw  no  God  in  the  sky.  Such  a  night  ages  a  woman. 

Next  morning  I  said : 

"Take  Fedelta  and  be  off  to  Paris!  Don't  sell  her;  I  love 
her.  Does  she  not  carry  you  ?" 

But  he  was  not  deceived;  my  tone  betrayed  the  storm  of 
feeling  which  I  strove  to  conceal. 

"Trust  me!"  he  replied;  and  the  gesture  with  which  he 
held  out  his  hand,  the  glance  of  his  eye,  were  so  full  of 
loyalty  that  I  was  overcome. 

"What  petty  creatures  women  are !"  I  exclaimed. 

"No,  you  love  me,  that  is  all,"  he  said,  pressing  me  to  his 
heart. 

"Go  to  Paris  without  me,"  I  said,  and  this  time  I  made  him 
understand  that  my  suspicions  were  laid  aside. 

He  went;  I  thought  he  would  have  stayed.     I  won't  at- 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  349 

tempt  to  tell  you  what  I  suffered.  I  found  a  second  self 
within,  quite  strange  to  me.  A  crisis  like  this  has,  for  the 
woman  who  loves,  a  tragic  solemnity  that  baffles  words;  the 
whole  of  life  rises  before  you  then,  and  you  search  in  vain 
for  any  horizon  to  it;  the  veriest  trifle  is  big  with  meaning, 
a  glance  contains  a  volume,  icicles  drift  on  uttered  words, 
and  the  death  sentence  is  read  in  a  movement  of  the  lips. 

I  thought  he  would  have  paid  me  back  in  kind ;  had  I  not 
been  magnanimous  ?  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  chalet,  and 
my  eyes  followed  him  on  the  road.  Ah !  my  dear  Kenee,  he 
vanished  from  my  sight  with  an  appalling  swiftness. 

"How  keen  he  is  to  go !"  was  the  thought  that  sprang  of 
itself. 

Once  more  alone,  I  fell  back  into  the  hell  of  possibilities, 
the  maelstrom  of  mistrust.  There  were  moments  when  I 
would  have  welcomed  any  certainty,  even  the  worst,  as  a 
relief  from  the  torture  of  suspense.  Suspense  is  a  duel  car- 
ried on  in  the  heart,  and  we  give  no  quarter  to  ourselves. 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  walks.  I  returned  to  the  house, 
only  to  tear  out  again,  like  a  mad  woman.  Gaston,  who  left 
at  seven  o'clock,  did  not  return  till  eleven.  Now,  as  it  only 
takes  half  an  hour  to  reach  Paris  through  the  park  of  St. 
Cloud  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  it  is  plain  that  he  must 
have  spent  three  hours  in  town.  He  came  back  radiant, 
with  a  whip  in  his  hand  for  me,  an  india-rubber  whip  with  a 
gold  handle. 

For  a  fortnight  I  had  been  without  a  whip,  my  old  one 
being  worn  and  broken. 

"Was  it  for  this  you  tortured  me  ?"  I  said,  as  I  admired  the 
workmanship  of  this  beautiful  ornament,  which  contains  a 
little  scent-box  at  one  end. 

Then  it  flashed  on  me  that  the  present  was  a  fresh  arti- 
fice. Nevertheless  I  threw  myself  at  once  on  his  neck,  not 
without  reproaching  him  gently  for  having  caused  me  so 
much  pain  for  the  sake  of  a  trifle.  He  was  greatly  pleased 
with  his  ingenuity;  his  eyes  and  his  whole  bearing  plainly 
showed  the  restrained  triumph  of  the  successful  plotter;  for 


350  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

there  is  a  radiance  of  the  soul  which  is  reflected  in  every 
feature  and  turn  of  the  body.  While  still  examining  the 
beauties  of  this  work  of  art,  I  asked  him  at  a  moment  when 
we  happened  to  be  looking  each  other  in  the  face : 

"Who  is  the  artist  ?" 

"A  friend  of  mine." 

"Ah !  I  see  it  has  been  mounted  by  Verdier,"  and  I  read 
the  name  of  the  shop  printed  on  the  handle. 

Gaston  is  nothing  but  a  child  yet.  He  blushed,  and  I 
made  much  of  him  as  a  reward  for  the  shame  he  felt  in  de- 
ceiving me.  I  pretended  to  notice  nothing,  and  he  may  well 
have  thought  the  incident  was  over. 

May  25tft. 

The  next  morning  I  was  in  my  riding-habit  by  six  o'clock, 
and  by  seven  landed  at  Verdier's,  where  several  whips  of 
the  same  pattern  were  shown  me.  One  of  the  men  serving 
recognized  mine  when  I  pointed  it  out  to  him. 

"We  sold  that  yesterday  to  a  young  gentleman,"  he  said. 
And  from  the  description  I  gave  him  of  my  traitor  Gaston, 
not  a  doubt  was  left  of  his  identity.  I  will  spare  you  the 
palpitations  which  rent  my  heart  during  that  journey  to 
Paris  and  the  little  scene  there,  which  marked  the  turning- 
point  of  my  life. 

By  half-past  seven  I  was  home  again,  and  Gaston  found 
me,  fresh  and  blooming,  in  my  morning  dress,  sauntering 
about  with  a  make-believe  nonchalance.  I  felt  confident 
that  old  Philippe,  who  had  been  taken  into  my  confidence, 
would  not  have  betrayed  my  absence. 

"Gaston,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  by  the  side  of  the  lake, 
"you  cannot  blind  me  to  the  difference  between  a  work  of 
art  inspired  by  friendship  and  something  which  has  been  cast 
in  a  mould." 

He  turned  white,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  rather  than  on 
the  damaging  piece  of  evidence  I  thrust  before  them. 

"My  dear,"  I  went  on,  "this  is  not  a  whip ;  it  is  a  screen  be- 
hind which  you  are  hiding  something  from  me." 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  351 

Thereupon  I  gave  myself  the  gratification  of  watching 
his  hopeless  entanglement  in  the  coverts  and  labyrinths  of 
deceit  and  the  desperate  efforts  he  made  to  find  some  wall  he 
might  scale  and  thus  escape.  In  vain;  he  had  perforce  to 
remain  upon  the  field,  face  to  face  with  an  adversary,  who 
at  last  laid  down  her  arms  in  a  feigned  complacence.  But  it 
was  too  late.  The  fatal  mistake,  against  which  my  mother 
had  tried  to  warn  me,  was  made.  My  jealousy,  exposed  in 
all  its  nakedness,  had  led  to  war  and  all  its  stratagems  be- 
tween Gaston  and  myself.  Jealousy,  dear,  has  neither  sense 
nor  decency. 

I  made  up  my  mind  now  to  suffer  in  silence,  but  to  keep 
my  eyes  open,  until  my  doubts  were  resolved  one  way  or  an- 
other. Then  I  would  either  break  with  Gaston  or  bow  to 
my  misfortune:  no  middle  course  is  possible  for  a  woman 
who  respects  herself. 

What  can  he  be  concealing?  For  a  secret  there  is,  and 
the  secret  has  to  do  with  a  woman.  Is  it  some  youthful 
escapade  for  which  he  still  blushes?  But  if  so,  what?  The 
word  what  is  written  in  letters  of  fire  on  all  I  see.  I  read 
it  in  the  glassy  water  of  my  lake,  in  the  shrubbery,  in  the 
clouds,  on  the  ceilings,  at  table,  in  the  flowers  of  the  car- 
pets. A  voice  cries  to  me  what?  in  my  sleep.  Dating  from 
the  morning  of  my  discovery,  a  cruel  interest  has  sprung 
into  our  lives,  and  I  have  become  familiar  with  the  bitterest 
thought  that  can  corrode  the  heart — the  thought  of  treach- 
ery in  him  one  loves.  Oh !  my  dear,  there  is  heaven  and 
hell  together  in  such  a  life.  Never  had  I  felt  this  scorching 
flame,  I  to  whom  love  had  appeared  only  in  the  form  of  de- 
voutest  worship. 

"So  you  wished  to  know  the  gloomy  torture-chamber  of 
pain !"  I  said  to  myself.  Good,  the  spirits  of  evil  have  heard 
your  prayer;  go  on  your  road,  unhappy  wretch! 

May  20th. 

Since  that  fatal  day  Gaston  no  longer  works  with  the  care- 
less ease  of  the  wealthy  artist,  whose  work  is  merely  pastime : 


352  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

he  sets  himself  tasks  like  a  professional  writer.  Four  hours 
a  day  he  devotes  to  finishing  his  two  plays. 

"He  wants  money !" 

A  voice  within  whispered  the  thought.  But  why?  He 
spends  next  to  nothing;  we  have  absolutely  no  secrets  from 
each  other;  there  is  not  a  corner  of  his  study  which  my  eyes 
and  my  fingers  may  not  explore.  His  yearly  expenditure 
does  not  amount  to  two  thousand  francs,  and  I  know  that  he 
has  thirty  thousand,  I  can  hardly  say  laid  by,  but  scattered 
loose  in  a  drawer.  You  can  guess  what  is  coming.  At  mid- 
night, while  he  was  sleeping,  I  went  to  see  if  the  money  was 
^till  there.  An  icy  shiver  ran  through  me.  The  drawer  was 
empty. 

That  same  week  I  discovered  that  he  went  to  Sevres  to 
fetch  his  letters,  and  these  letters  he  must  tear  up  immedi- 
ately ;  for  though  I  am  a  very  Figaro  in  contrivances,  I  have 
never  yet  seen  a  trace  of  one.  Alas !  my  sweet,  despite  the 
fine  promises  and  vows  by  which  I  bound  myself  after  the 
scene  of  the  whip,  an  impulse,  which  I  can  only  call  madness, 
drove  me  to  follow  him  in  one  of  his  rapid  rides  to  the 
post-office.  Gaston  was  appalled  to  be  thus  discovered  on 
horseback,  paying  the  postage  of  a  letter  which  he  held  in 
his  hand.  He  looked  fixedly  at  me,  and  then  put  spurs  to 
Fedelta.  The  pace  was  so  hard  that  I  felt  shaken  to  bits 
when  I  reached  the  lodge  gate,  though  my  mental  agony  was 
such  at  the  time  that  it  might  well  have  dulled  all  conscious- 
ness of  bodily  pain.  Arrived  at  the  gate,  Gaston  said  nothing ; 
he  rang  the  bell  and  waited  without  a  word.  I  was  more 
dead  than  alive.  I  might  be  mistaken  or  I  might  not,  but 
in  neither  case  was  it  fitting  for  Armande-Louise-Marie  de 
Chaulieu  to  play  the  spy.  I  had  sunk  to  the  level  of  the 
gutter,  by  the  side  of  courtesans,  opera-dancers,  mere  crea- 
tures of  instinct;  even  the  vulgar  shop-girl  or  humble  seam- 
stress  might  look  down  on  me. 

What  a  moment !  At  last  the  door  opened ;  he  handed  his 
horse  to  the  groom,  and  I  also  dismounted,  but  into  his  arms, 
which  were  stretched  out  to  receive  me.  I  threw  my  skirt 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  353 

over  my  left  arm,  gave  him  my  right,  and  we  walked  on — 
still  in  silence.  The  few  steps  we  thus  took  might  be  reckoned 
to  me  for  a  hundred  years  of  purgatory.  A  swarm  of 
thoughts  beset  me  as  I  walked,  now  seeming  to  take  visible 
form  in  tongues  of  fire  before  my  eyes,  now  assailing  my 
mind,  each  with  its  own  poisoned  dart.  When  the  groom 
and  the  horses  were  far  away,  I  stopped  Gaston,  and,  looking 
him  in  the  face,  said,  as  I  pointed,  with  a  gesture  that  you 
should  have  seen,  to  the  fatal  letter  still  in  his  right  hand : 

"May  I  read  it?" 

He  gave  it  me.  I  opened  it  and  found  a  letter  from  Na- 
than, the  dramatic  author,  informing  Gaston  that  a  play  of 
his  had  been  accepted,  learned,  rehearsed,  and  would  be  pro- 
duced the  following  Saturday.  He  also  enclosed  a  box  ticket. 

Though  for  me  this  was  the  opening  of  heaven's  gates  to  the 
martyr,  yet  the  fiend  would  not  leave  me  in  peace,  but  kept 
crying,  "Where  are  the  thirty  thousand  francs?"  It  was  a 
question  which  self-respect,  dignity,  all  my  old  self  in  fact, 
prevented  me  from  uttering.  If  my  thought  became  speech, 
I  might  as  well  throw  myself  into  the  lake  at  once,  and  yet  I 
could  hardly  keep  the  words  down.  Dear  friend,  was  not  -this 
a  trial  passing  the  strength  of  woman? 

I  returned  the  letter,  saying : 

"My  poor  Gaston,  you  are  getting  bored  down  here.  Let 
us  go  back  to  Paris,  won't  you  ?" 

"To  Paris?"  he  said.  "But  why?  I  only  wanted  to  find 
out  if  I  had  any  gift,  to  taste  the  flowing  bowl  of  success !" 

Nothing  would  be  easier  than  for  me  to  ransack  the  drawer 
some  time  when  he  is  working  and  pretend  great  surprise  at 
finding  the  money  gone.  But  that  would  be  going  half-way 
to  meet  the  answer,  "Oh !  my  friend  So-and-So  was  hard  up  !" 
etc.,  which  a  man  of  Gaston's  quick  wit  would  not  have  far 
to  seek. 

The  moral,  my  dear,  is  that  the  brilliant  success  of  this 
play,  which  all  Paris  is  crowding  to  see,  is  due  to  us,  though 
the  whole  credit  goes  to  Nathan.  I  am  represented  by  one 


354  LETTERS  OP  TWO  BRIDES 

of  the  two  stars  in  the  legend:  Et  M  *  *.     I  saw  the  first 
night  from  the  depths  of  one  of  the  stage  boxes. 

July  1st. 

Gaston's  work  and  his  visits  to  Paris  shall  continue.  He 
is  preparing  new  plays,  partly  because  he  wants  a  pretext 
for  going  to  Paris,  partly  in  order  to  make  money.  Three 
plays  have  been  accepted,  and  two  more  are  commissioned. 

Oh!  my  dear,  I  am  lost,  all  is  darkness  around  me.  I 
would  set  fire  to  the  house  in  a  moment  if  that  .would  bring 
light.  What  does  it  all  mean?  Is  he  ashamed  of  taking 
money  from  me?  He  is  too  high-minded  for  so  trumpery 
a  matter  to  weigh  with  him.  Besides,  scruples  of  the  kind 
could  only  be  the  outcome  of  some  love  affair.  A  man  would 
take  anything  from  his  wife,  but  from  the  woman  he  has 
ceased  to  care  for,  or  is  thinking  of  deserting,  it  is  different. 
If  he  needs  such  large  sums,  it  must  be  to  spend  them  on  a 
woman.  For  himself,  why  should  he  hesitate  to  draw  from 
my  purse?  Our  savings  amount  to  one  hundred  thousand 
francs ! 

In  short,  my  sweetheart,  I  have  explored  a  whole  continent 
of  possibilities,  and  after  carefully  weighing  all  the  evidence, 
am  convinced  I  have  a  rival.  I  am  deserted — for  whom? 
At  all  costs  I  must  see  the  unknown. 

July  10th. 

Light  has  come,  and  it  is  all  over  with  me.  Yes,  Kenee, 
at  the  age  of  thirty,  in  the  perfection  of  my  beauty,  with  all 
the  resources  of  a  ready  wit  and  the  seductive  charms  of 
dress  at  my  command,  I  am  betrayed — and  for  whom?  A 
large-boned  Englishwoman,  with  big  feet  and  thick  waist — 
a  regular  British  cow!  There  is  no  longer  room  for  doubt. 
I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  the  last  few  days. 

Worn  out  with  suspicions,  which  were  fed  by  Gaston's 
guilty  silence  (for,  if  he  had  helped  a  friend,  why  keep  it  a 
secret  from  me?),  his  insatiable  desire  for  money,  and  his 
frequent  journeys  to  Paris;  jealous  too  of  the  work  from 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  355 

which  he  seemed  unable  to  tear  himself,  I  at  last  made  up 
my  mind  to  take  certain  steps,  of  such  a  degrading  nature 
that  I  cannot  tell  you  about  them.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
three  days  ago  I  ascertained  that  Gaston,  when  in  Paris,  visits 
a  house  in  the  Eue  de  la  Ville  1'Eveque,  where  he  guards 
his  mistress  with  jealous  mystery,  unexampled  in  Paris.  The 
porter  was  surly,  and  I  could  get  little  out  of  him,  but  that 
little  was  enough  to  put  an  end  to  any  lingering  hope,  and 
with  hope  to  life.  On  this  point  my  mind  was  resolved, 
and  I  only  waited  to  learn  the  whole  truth  first. 

With  this  object  I  went  to  Paris  and  took  rooms  in  a  house 
exactly  opposite  the  one  which  Gaston  visits.  Thence  I 
saw  him  with  my  own  eyes  enter  the  courtyard  on  horseback. 
Too  soon  a  ghastly  fact  forced  itself  on  me.  This  English- 
woman, who  seems  to  me  about  thirty-six,  is  known  as  Mme. 
Gaston.  This  discovery  was  my  deathblow. 

I  saw  him  next  walking  to  the  Tuileries  with  a  couple  of 
children.  Oh !  my  dear,  two  children,  the  living  images  of 
Gaston !  The  likeness  is  so  strong  that  it  bears  scandal  on  the 
face  of  it.  And  what  pretty  children!  in  their  handsome 
English  costumes !  She  is  the  mother  of  bis  children.  Here 
is  the  key  to  the  whole  mystery. 

The  woman  herself  might  be  a  Greek  statue,  stepped  down 
from  some  monument.  Cold  and  white  as  marble,  she  moves 
sedately  with  a  mother's  pride.  She  is  undeniably  beautiful, 
but  heavy  as  a  man-of-war.  There  is  no  breeding  or  dis- 
tinction about  her;  nothing  of  the  English  lady.  Probably 
she  is  a  farmer's  daughter  from  some  wretched  and  remote 
country  village,  or,  it  may  be,  the  eleventh  child  of  some  poor 
clergyman ! 

I  reached  home,  after  a  miserable  journey,  during  which 
all  sorts  of  fiendish  thoughts  had  me  at  their  mercy,  with 
hardly  any  life  left  in  me.  Was  she  married?  Did  he  know 
her  before  our  marriage?  Had  she  been  deserted  by  some 
rich  man,  whose  mistress  she  was,  and  thus  thrown  back  upon 
Gaston's  hands?  Conjectures  without  end  flitted  through 


356  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

my  brain,  as  though  conjecture  were  needed  in  the  presence 
of  the  children. 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  Paris,  and  by  a  free  use  of  my 
purse  extracted  from  the  porter  the  information  that  Mme. 
Gaston  was  legally  married. 

His  reply  to  my  question  took  the  form,  "Yes,  Miss." 

JulylSUi. 

.  My  dear,  my  love  for  Gaston  is  stronger  than  ever  since 
that  morning,  and  he  has  every  appearance  of  being  still 
more  deeply  in  love.  He  is  so  young !  A  score  of  times  it 
has  been  on  my  lips,  when  we  rise  in  the  morning,  to  say, 
"Then  you  love  me  better  than  the  lady  of  the  Eue  de  la 
Ville  1'Evcque?"  But  I  dare  not  explain  to  myself  why  the 
words  are  checked  on  my  tongue. 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  children  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  yes !"  was  his  reply ;  "but  children  will  come  I" 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"I  have  consulted  the  best  doctors,  and  they  agree  in  ad- 
vising me  to  travel  for  a  couple  of  months." 

"Gaston,"  I  said,  "if  love  in  absence  had  been  possible  for 
me,  do  you  suppose  I  should  ever  have  left  the  convent?" 

He  laughed ;  but  as  for  me,  dear,  the  word  "travel"  pierced 
my  heart.  Eather,  far  rather,  would  I  leap  from  the  top  of 
the  house  than  be  rolled  down  the  staircase,  step  by  step. — 
Farewell,  my  sweetheart.  I  have  arranged  for  my  death  to 
be  easy  and  without  horrors,  but  certain.  I  made  my  will 
yesterday.  You  can  come  to  me  now,  the  prohibition  is  re- 
moved. Come,  then,  and  receive  my  last  farewell.  I  will  not 
die  by  inches ;  my  death,  like  my  life,  shall  bear  the  impress 
of  dignity  and  grace. 

Good-bye,  dear  sister  soul,  whose  affection  has  never  wa- 
vered nor  grown  weary,  but  has  been  the  constant  tender 
moonlight  of  my  soul.  If  the  intensity  of  passion  has  not 
been  ours,  at  least  we  have  been  spared  its  venomous  hiltftr- 
ness.  How  rightly  you  have  judged  of  life !  Farewell. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  357 

LV 

THE   COMTESSE   DE    I/ESTORADE   TO    MME.    GASTON" 

July  1«A. 

MY  DEA.R  LOUISE, — I  send  this  letter  by  an  express  before 
hastening  to  the  chalet  myself.  Take  courage.  Your  last 
letter  seemed  to  me  so  frantic,  that  I  thought  myself  justified, 
under  the  circumstances,  in  confiding  all  to  Louis;  it  was 
a  question  of  saving  you  from  yourself.  If  the  means  we 
have  employed  have  been,  like  yours,  repulsive,  yet  the  result 
is  so  satisfactory  that  I  am  certain  you  will  approve.  I  went 
so  far  as  to  set  the  police  to  work,  but  the  whole  thing  re- 
mains a  secret  between  the  prefect,  ourselves,  and  you. 

In  one  word,  Gaston  is  a  jewel !  But  here  are  the  facts. 
His  brother,  Louis  Gaston,  died  at  Calcutta,  while  in  the 
service  of  a  mercantile  company,  when  he  was  on  the  very 
point  of  returning  to  France,  a  rich,  prosperous,  married 
man,  having  received  a  very  large  fortune  with  his  wife, 
who  was  the  widow  of  an  English  merchant.  For  ten  years 
he  had  worked  hard  that  he  might  be  able  to  send  home 
enough  to  support  his  brother,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly 
attached,  and  from  whom  his  letters  generously  concealed 
all  his  trials  and  disappointments. 

Then  came  the  failure  of  the  great  Halmer  house;  the 
widow  was  mined,  and  the  sudden  shock  affected  Louis  Gas- 
ton's  brain.  He  had  no  mental  energy  left  to  resist  the  dis- 
ease which  attacked  him,  and  he  died  in  Bengal,  whither  he 
had  gone  to  try  and  realize  the  remnants  of  his  wife's  prop- 
erty. The  dear,  good  fellow  had  deposited  with  a  banker 
a  first  sum  of  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  which  was 
to  go  to  his  brother,  but  the  banker  was  involved  in  the 
Halmer  crash,  and  thus  their  last  resource  failed  them. 

Louis'  widow,  the  handsome  woman  whom  you  took  for 
your  rival,  arrived  in  Paris  with  two  children — your 
nephews — and  an  empty  purse,  her  mother's  jewels  having 
barely  sufficed  to  pay  for  bringing  them  over.  The  instruc- 


358  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRlDES 

tions  which  Louis  Gaston  had  given  the  banker  for  sending 
the  money  to  his  brother  enabled  the  widow  to  find  your 
husband's  former  home.  As  Gaston  had  disappeared  without 
leaving  any  address,  Mme.  Louis  Gaston  was  directed  to 
d'Arthez,  the  only  person  who  could  give  any  information 
about  him. 

D'Arthez  was  the  more  ready  to  relieve  the  young  woman's 
pressing  needs,  because  Louis  Gaston,  at  the  time  of  his 
marriage  four  years  before,  had  written  to  make  inquiries 
about  his  brother  from  the  famous  author,  whom  he  knew 
to  be  one  of  his  friends.  The  Captain  had  consulted  d'Arthez 
as  to  the  best  means  of  getting  the  money  safely  transferred 
to  Marie,  and  d'Arthez  had  replied,  telling  him  that  Gaston 
was  now  a  rich  man  through  his  marriage  with  the  Baronne 
de  Macumer.  The  personal  beauty,  which  was  the  mother's 
rich  heritage  to  her  sons,  had  saved  them  both — one  in  India, 
the  other  in  Paris — from  destitution.  A  touching  story,  is  it 
not? 

D'Arthez  naturally  wrote,  after  a  time,  to  tell  your  husband 
of  the  condition  of  his  sister-in-law  and  her  children,  in- 
forming him,  at  the  same  time,  of  the  generous  intentions 
of  the  Indian  Gaston  towards  his  Paris  brother,  which  an 
unhappy  chance  alone  had  frustrated.  Gaston,  as  you  may 
imagine,  hurried  off  to  Paris.  Here  is  the  first  ride  accounted 
for.  During  the  last  five  years  he  had  saved  fifty  thousand 
francs  out  of  the  income  which  you  forced  him  to  accept, 
and  this  sum  he  invested  in  the  public  funds  under  the 
names  of  his  two  nephews,  securing  them  each,  in  this  way, 
an  income  of  twelve  hundred  francs.  Next  he  furnished 
his  sister-in-law's  rooms,  and  promised  her  a  quarterly  al- 
lowance of  three  thousand  francs.  Here  you  see  the  meaning 
of  his  dramatic  labors  and  the  pleasure  caused  him  by  the 
success  of  his  first  play. 

Mme.  Gaston,  therefore,  is  no  rival  of  yours,  and  has  every 
right  to  your  name.  A  man  of  Gaston's  sensitive  delicacy 
was  bound  to  keep  the  affair  secret  from  you,  knowing,  as 
he  did,  your  generous  nature.  Nor  does  he  look  on  what 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  350 

you  give  him  as  his  own.  D'Arthez  read  me  the  letter  he 
had  from  your  husband,  asking  him  to  be  one  of  the  witnesses 
at  his  marriage.  Gaston  in  this  declares  that  his  happiness 
would  have  been  perfect  but  for  the  one  drawback  of  his 
poverty  and  indebtedness  to  you.  A  virgin  soul  is  at  the 
mercy  of  such  scruples.  Either  they  make  themselves  felt 
or  they  do  not;  and  when  they  do,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
conflict  of  feeling  and  embarrassment  to  which  they  give  rise. 
Nothing  is  more  natural  than  Gaston's  wish  to  provide  in 
secret  a  suitable  maintenance  for  the  woman  who  is  his 
brother's  widow,  and  who  had  herself  set  aside  one  hundred 
thousand  ecus  for  him  from  her  own  fortune.  She  is  a  hand- 
some woman,  warm-hearted,  and  extremely  well-bred,  but 
not  clever.  She  is  a  mother;  and,  you  may  be  sure,  I  lost 
my  heart  to  her  at  first  sight  when  I  found  her  with  one 
child  in  her  arms,  and  the  other  dressed  like  a  little  lord. 
The  children  first !  is  written  in  every  detail  of  her  house. 

Far  from  being  angry,  therefore,  with  your  beloved  hus- 
band, you  should  find  in  all  this  fresh  reason  for  loving  him. 
I  have  met  him,  and  think  him  the  most  delightful  young 
fellow  in  Paris.  Yes !  dear  child,  when  I  saw  him,  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  a  woman  might  lose  her 
head  about  him;  his  soul  is  mirrored  in  his  countenance.  If 
I  were  you,  I  should  settle  the  widow  and  her  children  at 
the  chalet,  in  a  pretty  little  cottage  which  you  could  have 
built  for  them,  and  adopt  the  boys ! 

Be  at  peace,  then,  dear  soul,  and  plan  this  little  surprise, 
in  your  turn,  for  Gaston. 


LVI 

MME.    GASTON    TO    THE    COMTESSE    DE    I/ESTORADE 

AH!  my  dear  friend,  what  can  I  say  in  answer  except  the 
cruel  "It  is  too  late"  of  that  fool  Lafayette  to  his  royal  mas- 
ter? Oh!  my  life,  my  sweet  life,  what  physician  will  give 


360  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

it  back  to  me  ?  My  own  hand  has  dealt  the  deathblow.  Alas ! 
have  I  not  been  a  mere  will-o'-the-wisp,  whose  twinkling 
spark  was  fated  to  perish  before  it  reached  a  flame  ?  My  eyes 
rain  torrents  of  tears — and  yet  they  must  not  fall  when  I  am 
with  him.  I  fly  him,  and  he  seeks  me.  My  despair  is  all 
within.  This  torture  Dante  forgot  to  place  in  his  Inferno. 
Come  to  see  me  die ! 


LVII 

THE  COMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  THE  COMTE  DE 
L'ESTORADE 

THE  CHALET,  August  7th. 

MY  LOVE, — Take  the  children  away  to  Provence  without  me ; 
I  remain  with  Louise,  who  has  only  a  few  days  yet  to  live. 
I  cannot  leave  either  her  or  her  husband,  for  whose  reason 
I  fear. 

You  know  the  scrap  of  letter  which  sent  me  flying  to  Ville 
d'Avray,  picking  up  the  doctors  on  my  way.  Since  then 
I  have  not  left  my  darling  friend,  and  it  has  been  impossible 
to  write  to  you,  for  I  have  sat  up  every  night  for  a  fortnight. 

When  I  arrived,  I  found  her  with  Gaston,  in  full  dress, 
beautiful,  laughing,  happy.  It  was  a  heroic  falsehood  !  They 
were  like  two  lovely  children  together  in  their  restored  con- 
fidence. For  a  moment  I  was  deceived,  like  Gaston,  by  this* 
effontery;  but  Louise  pressed  my  hand,  whispering: 

"He  must  not  know;  I  am  dying." 

An  icy  chill  fell  over  me  as  I  felt  her  burning  hand  and 
saw  the  red  spots  on  her  cheeks.  I  congratulated  myself 
on  my  prudence  in  leaving  the  doctors  in  the  wood  till  the} 
should  be  sent  for. 

"Leave  us  for  a  little,"  she  said  to  Gaston.  "Two 
women  who  have  not  met  for  five  years  have  plenty  of  secrets 
to  talk  over,  and  Kenee,  I  have  no  doubt,  has  things  to  confide 
in  me." 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  361 

Directly  we  were  alone,  she  flung  herself  into  my  arms, 
unable  longer  to  restrain  her  tears. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said.  "I  have  brought  with  me,  in 
case  of  need,  the  best  surgeon  and  the  best  physician  from 
the  hospital,  and  Bianchon  as  well ;  there  are  four  altogether." 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  "have  them  in  at  once  if  they  can  save  me, 
if  there  is  still  time.  The  passion  which  hurried  me  to  death 
now  cries  for  life !" 

"But  what  have  you  done  to  yourself  ?" 

"I  have  in  a  few  days  brought  myself  to  the  last  stage  of 
consumption." 

"But  how?" 

"I  got  myself  into  a  profuse  ^eispiration  in  the  night,  and 
then  ran  out  and  lay  down  by  the  side  of  the  laue  in  the  dew. 
Gaston  thinks  I  have  a  cold,  and  I  am  dying !" 

"Send  him  to  Paris ;  I  will  fetch  the  doctors  myself,"  I  said, 
as  I  rushed  out  wildly  to  the  spot  where  I  had  left  them. 

Alas !  my  love,  after  the  consultation  was  over,  not  one 
of  the  doctors  gave  me  the  least  hope;  they  all  believe  that 
Louise  will  die  with  the  fall  of  the  leaves.  The  dear  child's 
constitution  has  wonderfully  helped  the  success  of  her  plan. 
It  seems  she  has  a  predisposition  to  this  complaint;  and 
though,  in  the  ordinary  course,  she  might  have  lived  a  long 
time,  a  few  days'  folly  has  made  the  case  desperate. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt  on  hearing  this  sentence, 
based  on  such  clear  explanations.  You  know  that  I  have 
lived  in  Louise  as  much  as  in  my  own  life.  I  was  simply 
crushed,  and  could  not  stir  to  escort  to  the  door  these  har- 
bingers of  evil.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  remained  lost  in 
bitter  thoughts,  the  tears  running  down  my  cheeks,  when 
I  was  roused  from  my  stupor  by  the  words : 

"So  there  is  no  hope  for  me !"  in  a  clear,  angelic  voice. 

It  was  Louise,  with  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  She  made 
me  get  up,  and  carried  me  off  to  her  small  drawing-room. 
With  a  beseeching  glance,  she  went  on  : 

"Stay  with  me  to  the  end ;  I  won't  have  doleful  faces  round 
me.  Above  all,  I  must  keep  the  truth  from  him.  I  know 


362  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

that  I  have  strength  to  do  it.  I  am  full  of  youth  and 
spirit,  and  can  die  standing!  For  myself,  I  have  no  re- 
grets. I  am  dying  as  I  wished  to  die,  still  young  and  beauti- 
ful, in  the  perfection  of  my  womanhood. 

"As  for  him,  I  can  see  very  well  now  that  I  should  have 
made  his  life  miserable.  Passion  has  me  in  its  grip,  like  a 
struggling  fawn,  impatient  of  the  toils.  My  groundless  jeal- 
ousy has  already  wounded  him  sorely.  When  the  day  came 
that  my  suspicions  met  only  indifference — which  in  the  long 
run  is  the  rightful  meed  of  all  jealousy — well,  that  would 
have  been  my  death.  I  have  had  my  share  of  life.  There  are 
people  whose  names  on  the  muster-roll  of  the  world  show 
sixty  years  of  service,  and  yet  in  all  that  time  they  have  not 
had  two  years  of  real  life,  whilst  my  record  of  thirty  is 
doubled  by  the  intensity  of  my  love. 

"Thus  for  him,  as  well  as  for  me,  the  close  is  a  happy  one. 
But  between  us,  dear  Eenee,  it  is  different.  You  lose  a  loving 
sister,  and  that  is  a  loss  which  nothing  can  repair.  You  alone 
here  have  the  right  to  mourn  my  death." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  I  could  only  see  her 
through  a  mist  of  tears,  she  continued : 

"The  moral  of  my  death  is  a  cruel  one.  My  dear  doctor  in 
petticoats  was  right;  marriage  cannot  rest  upon  passion  as 
its  foundation,  nor  even  upon  love.  How  fine  and  noble  is 
your  life !  keeping  always  to  the  one  safe  road,  you  give  your 
husband  an  ever-growing  affection;  while  the  passionate 
eagerness  with  which  I  threw  myself  into  wedded  life  was 
bound  in  nature  to  diminish.  Twice  have  I  gone  astray,  and 
twice  has  Death  stretched  forth  his  bony  hand  to  strike  my 
happiness.  The  first  time,  he  robbed  me  of  the  noblest  and 
most  devoted  of  men;  now  it  is  my  turn,  the  grinning 
monster  tears  me  from  the  arms  of  my  poet  husband,  with 
all  his  beauty  and  his  grace. 

"Yet  I  would  not  complain.  Have  I  not  known  in  turn 
two  men,  each  the  very  pattern  of  nobility — one  in  mind, 
the  other  in  outward  form?  In  Felipe,  the  soul  dominated 
and  transformed  the  body ;  in  Gaston,  one  could  not  say  which 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  363 

was  supreme — heart,  mind,  or  grace  of  form.  I  die  adored 
— what  more  could  I  wish  for?  Time,  perhaps,  in  which 
to  draw  near  the  God  of  whom  I  may  have  too  little  thought. 
My  spirit  will  take  its  flight  towards  Him,  full  of  love,  and 
with  the  prayer  that  some  day,  in  the  world  above,  He  will 
unite  me  once  more  to  the  two  who  made  a  heaven  of  my  life 
below.  Without  them,  paradise  would  be  a  desert  to  me. 

"To  others,  my  example  would  be  fatal,  for  mine  was  no 
common  lot.  To  meet  a  Felipe  or  a  Gaston  is  more  than 
mortals  can  expect,  and  therefore  the  doctrine  of  society 
in  regard  to  marriage  accords  with  the  natural  law.  Woman 
is  weak,  and  in  marrying  she  ought  to  make  an  entire  sacrifice 
of  her  will  to  the  man  who,  in  return,  should  lay  his  selfish- 
ness at  her  feet.  The  stir  which  women  of  late  years  have 
created  by  their  whining  and  insubordination  is  ridiculous, 
and  only  shows  how  well  we  deserve  the  epithet  of  children, 
bestowed  by  philosophers  on  our  sex." 

She  continued  talking  thus  in  the  gentle  voice  you  know 
so  well,  uttering  the  gravest  truths  in  the  prettiest  manner, 
until  Gaston  entered,  bringing  with  him  his  sister-in-law,  the 
two  children,  and  the  English  nurse,  whom,  at  Louise's  re- 
quest, he  had  been  to  fetch  from  Paris. 

"Here  are  the  pretty  instruments  of  my  torture,"  she  said, 
as  her  nephews  approached.  "Was  not  the  mistake  excusable  ? 
What  a  wonderful  likeness  to  their  uncle !" 

She  was  most  friendly  to  Mme.  Gaston  the  elder,  and 
begged  that  she  would  look  upon  the  chalet  as  her  home;  in 
short,  she  played  the  hostess  to  her  in  her  best  de  Chaulieu 
manner,  in  which  no  one  can  rival  her. 

I  wrote  at  once  to  the  Due  and  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  the 
Due  de  Ehetore,  and  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt-Givry,  as  well  as 
to  Madeleine.  It  was  time.  Next  day,  Louise,  worn  out 
with  so  much  exertion,  was  unable  to  go  out;  indeed,  she 
only  got  up  for  dinner.  In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Made- 
leine de  Lenoncourt,  her  two  brothers,  and  her  mother  ar- 
rived. The  coolness  which  Louise's  second  marriage  had 
caused  between  herself  and  her  family  disappeared.  Every 


364  LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 

day  since  that  evening,  Louise's  father  and  both  her  brothers 
have  ridden  over  in  the  morning,  and  the  two  duchesses 
spend  all  their  evenings  at  the  chalet.  Death  unites  as  well 
as  separates;  it  silences  all  paltry  feeling. 

Louise  is  perfection  in  her  charm,  her  grace,  her  good  sense, 
her  wit,  and  her  tenderness.  She  has  retained  to  the  last 
that  perfect  tact  for  which  she  has  been  so  famous,  and  she 
lavishes  on  us  the  treasures  of  her  brilliant  mind,  which  made 
her  one  of  the  queens  of  Paris. 

"I  should  like  to  look  well  even  in  my  coffin,"  she  said 
with  her  matchless  smile,  as  she  lay  down  on  the  bed  where 
she  was  to  linger  for  a  fortnight. 

Her  room  has  nothing  of  the  sick-chamber  in  it ;  medicines, 
ointments,  the  whole  apparatus  of  nursing,  is  carefully  con- 
cealed. 

"Is  not  my  deathbed  pretty !"  she  said  to  the  Sevres  priest 
who  came  to  confess  her. 

We  gloated  over  her  like  misers.  All  this  anxiety,  and  the 
terrible  truths  which  dawned  on  him,  have  prepared  Gaston 
for  the  worst.  He  is  full  of  courage,  but  the  blow  has  gone 
home.  It  would  not  surprise  me  to  see  him  follow  his  wife  in 
the  natural  course.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  walking  round  the 
lake,  he  said  to  me : 

"I  must  be  a  father  to  those  two  children,"  and  he  pointed 
to  his  sister-in-law,  who  was  taking  the  boys  for  a  walk.  "But 
though  I  shall  do  nothing  to  hasten  my  end,  I  want  your 
promise  that  you  will  be  a  second  mother  to  them,  and  will 
persuade  your  husband  to  accept  the  office  of  guardian,  which 
I  shall  depute  to  him  in  conjunction  with  my  sister-in-law." 

He  said  this  quite  simply,  like  a  man  who  knows  he  is  not 
long  for  this  world.  He  has  smiles  on  his  face  to  meet 
Louise's,  and  it  is  only  I  whom  he  does  not  deceive.  He  is 
a  mate  for  her  in  courage. 

Louise  has  expressed  a  wish  to  see  her  godson,  but  I  am  not 
sorry  he  should  be  in  Provence ;  she  might  want  to  remember 
him  generously,  and  I  should  be  in  a  great  difficulty. 

Good-bye,  my  love. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES  365 

August  25th  (her birthday). 

Yesterday  evening  Louise  was  delirious  for  a  short  time; 
but  her  delirium  was  the  prettiest  babbling,  which  shows  that 
even  the  madness  of  gifted  people  is  not  that  of  fools  or  no- 
bodies. In  a  mere  thread  of  a  voice  she  sang  some  Italian 
airs  from  I  Puritani,  La  Sonnambula,  Moise,  while  we  stood 
round  the  bed  in  silence.  Not  one  of  us,  not  even  the  Due 
de  Bhetore,  had  dry  eyes,  so  clear  was  it  to  us  all  that  her  soul 
was  in  this  fashion  passing  from  us.  She  could  no  longer 
see  us !  Yet  she  was  there  still  in  the  charm  of  the  faint 
melody,  with  its  sweetness  not  of  this  earth. 

During  the  night  the  death  agony  began.  It  is  now  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  I  have  just  myself  raised  her  from 
bed.  Some  nicker  of  strength  revived;  she  wished  to  sit  by 
her  window,  and  asked  for  Gaston's  hand.  And  then,  my 
love,  the  sweetest  spirit  whom  we  shall  ever  see  on  this  earth 
departed,  leaving  us  the  empty  shell. 

The  last  sacrament  had  been  administered  the  evening  be- 
fore, unknown  to  Gaston,  who  was  taking  a  snatch  of  sleep 
during  this  agonizing  ceremony;  and  after  she  was  moved 
to  the  window,  she  asked  me  to  read  her  the  De  Profundis 
in  French,  while  she  was  thus  face  to  face  with  the  lovely 
scene,  which  was  her  handiwork.  She  repeated  the  words 
after  me  to  herself,  and  pressed  the  hands  of  her  husband, 
who  knelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair. 

August  1<oUi. 

My  heart  is  broken.  I  have  just  seen  her  in  her  winding- 
sheet  ;  her  face  is  quite  pale  now  with  purple  shadows.  Oh ! 
I  want  my  children !  my  children !  Bring  me  my  children ! 


THE    END 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


INTRODUCTION 

THERE  are  not  a  few  volumes  of  Balzac  of  which  it  is  posj 
sible  to  speak  with  more  editorial  enthusiasm,  perhaps  in- 
deed there  is  hardly  any  of  which  it  is  possible  to  speak  with 
less,  than  of  the  volume  which  opens  with  La  Femme  de 
Trente  Ans.  All  its  contents,  or  all  with  the  exception  of 
Gobseck,  are  tainted  with  a  kind  of  sentimentalism  which,  in 
Balzac's  hands  and  to  English  taste,  very  rarely  escapes  a 
smatch  of  the  rancid;  few  of  them  exhibit  him  at  his  best 
as  an  artist,  and  one  or  two  show  him  almost  at  his  worst. 

The  least  good  of  all — though  its  title  and  a  very  small 
part  of  its  contents  have  had  the  honor  to  meet  with  an  ap- 
proval from  Saiute-Beuve,  which  that  critic  did  not  always 
bestow  upon  Balzac's  work — is  the  first  or  title-story.  As 
M.  de  Lovenjoul's  patient  investigations  have  shown,  and  as 
the  curiously  wide  date  1828-1844  would  itself  indicate  to 
any  one  who  has  carefully  studied  Balzac's  ways  of  proceed- 
ing, it  is  not  really  a  single  story  at  all,  but  consists  of  half 
a  dozen  chapters  or  episodes  originally  published  at  different 
times  and  in  different  places,  and  stuck  together  with  so  much 
less  than  even  the  author's  usual  attention  to  strict  construc- 
tion, that  the  general  title  is  totally  inapplicable  to  the 
greater  part  of  the  book,  and  that  the  chronology  of  that  part 
to  which  it  does  apply  fits  in  very  badly  with  the  rest. 
This,  however,  is  the  least  of  the  faults  of  the  piece.  It  is 
more — though  still  not  most — serious  that  Balzac  never  seems 
to  have  made  up  anything  like  a  clear  or  consistent  idea  of 


X  INTRODUCTION 

Julie  d'Aiglemont  in  his  mind.  First  she  is  a  selfish  and 
thoughtless  child;  then  an  angelic  and  persecuted  but  faith- 
ful wife;  then  a  somewhat  facile  victim  to  a  very  common- 
place seducer,  after  resisting  an  exceptional  one.  So,  again, 
she  is  first  a  devoted  mother,  then  an  almost  unnatural 
parent,  and  then  again  devoted,  being  punished  par  oil  elle 
a  peche  once  more.  Even  this,  however,  might  have  been 
atoned  for  by  truth,  or  grace,  or  power  of  handling.  I  can- 
not find  much  of  any  of  these  things  here.  Not  to  mention 
the  unsavoriness  of  part  of  Julie's  trials,  they  are  not  such 
as,  in  me  at  least,  excite  any  sympathy;  and  Balzac  has 
drenched  her  with  the  sickly  sentiment  above  noticed  to  an 
almost  nauseous  extent.  Although  he  would  have  us  take 
the  Marquis  as  a  brutal  husband,  he  does  not  in  effect  repre- 
sent him  as  such,  but  merely  as  a  not  very  refined  and  rather 
clumsy  "good  fellow,"  who  for  his  sins  is  cursed  with  a  mi- 
jauree  of  a  wife.  The  Julie- Arthur  love-passages  are  in  the 
very  worst  style  of  "sensibility ;"  and  though  I  fully  acknowl- 
edge the  heroism  of  my  countryman  Lord  Arthur  in  allow- 
ing his  fingers  to  be  crushed  and  making  no  sign — although 
1  question  very  much  whether  I  could  have  done  the  same — 
I  fear  this  romantic  act  does  not  suffice  to  give  verisimilitude 
to  a  figure  which  is  for  the  most  part  mere  pasteboard,  with 
sawdust  inside  and  tinsel  out.  Many  of  the  incidents,  such 
as  the  pushing  of  the  child  into  the  water,  and,  still  more, 
the  scene  on  shipboard  where  the  princely  Corsair  takes 
millions  out  of  a  piano  and  gives  them  away,  have  the  crude 
and  childish  absurdity  of  the  (Euvres  de  Jeunesse,  which  they 
very  much  resemble,  and  with  which,  from  the  earliest  date 
given,  they  may  very  probably  have  been  contemporary. 
Those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  find  Julie,  in  her  early 
afternoon  of  femme  incomprise,  attractive,  may  put  up  with 


INTRODUCTION  xl 

these  defects.  I  own  that  I  am  not  quite  able  to  find  the  com- 
pensation sufficient.  The  worse  side  of  the  French  "sensi- 
bility" school  from  Kousseau  to  Madame  de  Stael  appears 
here;  and  Balzac,  genius  as  he  was,  had  quite  weak  points 
enough  of  his  own  without  borrowing  other  men's  and 
women's. 

La  Femme  Abandonnee,  with  its  two  successors,  rather  be- 
longs to  that  class  of  Balzac's  stories  to  which  I  have  else- 
where given  the  title  of  anecdotes.  It  is  better  than  the  title- 
story,  or  rather  it  has  fewer  and  less  variable  faults.  The 
first  meeting  of  Madame  de  Beauseant  and  M.  de  Nueil  is 
positively  good ;  and  the  introduction,  with  its  sketch  of  what 
Balzac  knew  or  dreamed  to  be  society,  has  the  merit  of  most 
of  his  overtures.  But  the  tale  as  a  whole  has  the  drawback 
of  almost  all  this  special  class  of  love-stories,  except  Adolphe 
— from  which  so  many  of  them  were  imitated,  and  which 
Balzac,  I  think,  generally  had  in  his  mind  when  he  attempted 
the  style.  Benjamin  Constant,  either  by  sheer  literary  skill, 
or  as  the  result  of  transferring  to  his  book  an  intense  personal 
experience,  has  made  the  somewhat  monotonous  and  unre- 
lieved as  well  as  illicit  passion  of  his  personages  intensely 
real  and  touching.  Balzac,  here,  has  not.  It  is  not  Philistin- 
ism, but  common-sense,  which  objects  to  M.  de  Nueil's  neglect 
of  the  most  sensible  of  proverbs  about  the  old  love  and  the 
new. 

"Sensibility"  pursues  us  still  in  La  Grenadiere,  and  does 
not  set  us  free  in  Le  Message,  a  story  which,  by  the  way,  was 
much  twisted  about  in  its  author's  hands,  and  underwent 
transformations  too  long  to  be  summarized  here.  It  may 
be  brutal  to  feel  little  or  no  sympathy  with  the  woes  and  wil- 
low-wearing of  the  guilty  and  beautiful  Madame  Willemsens 
(otherwise  Lady  Brandon)  by  the  water  of  Loire;  but  I  con- 


xll  INTRODUCTION 

fess  that  they  leave  me  tearless,  and  I  do  not  know  that  the 
subsequent  appearances  of  Marie  Gaston  in  Deux  Jeunes 
Mariees  and  Le  Depute  d'Arcis  add  to  the  attraction  of  this 
novelette.  Jules  Sandeau  could  have  made  a  really  touch- 
ing thing  of  what  was,  I  think,  out  of  Balzac's  way.  Le 
Message  was  less  so ;  there  is  a  point  of  irony  in  it  which  com- 
mends itself  to  him,  and  which  keeps  it  sweet  and  prevents 
it  from  sharing  the  mawkishness  of  the  earlier  stories.  But 
it  is  slight. 

In  Gob  seek,  though  not  entirely,  we  shake  off  this  un- 
wonted and  uncongenial  influence,  and  come  to  matters  in 
which  Balzac  was  much  more  at  home.  The  hero  himself  is 
interesting,  the  story  of  Derville  and  Jenny  escapes  mawkish- 
ness,  and  all  the  scenes  in  which  the  Restauds  and  Maxime 
de  Trailles  figure  are  admirably  done  and  well  worth  read- 
ing. It  is  not  necessary  to  take  into  consideration  the  im- 
portant part  which  the  Dutch  Jew's  granddaughter  or  grand- 
niece  Esther  afterwards  plays  in  the  Comedie — he  is  good  in 
himself,  and  a  famous  addition  to  Balzac's  gallery  of  misers, 
the  most  interesting,  if  not  the  most  authentic,  ever  arranged 
on  that  curious  subject.  It  is  lucky  that  Gobseck  comes  in 
this  connection,  for  it  tones  up  a  dreary  book  wonderfully. 
Pierre  Grassou,  which  is  included  here  for  convenience, 
is  a  shorter  sketch ;  but  it  is  good  in  itself ;  it  is  very  charac- 
teristic of  its  time,  and  is  especially  happy  as  giving  the  vol- 
ume a  touch  of  comedy  which  is  grateful.  The  figure  of  the 
artist-bourgeois,  neither  Bohemian  nor  buveur  d'eau,  is  ex- 
cellently hit  off,  and  the  thing  leaves  us  with  all  the  sense 
of  a  pleasant  afterpiece. 

It  takes  M.  de  Lovenjoul  nearly  three  of  his  large  pages 
of  small  type  to  give  an  exact  bibliography  of  the  extra- 
ordinary mosaic  which  bears  the  title  of  La  Femme  de  Trente 


INTRODUCTION  xlll 

Ans.  It  must  be  sufficient  here  to  say  that  most  of  its  parts 
appeared  separately  in  different  periodicals  (notably  the 
Revue  de  Paris')  during  the  very  early  thirties;  that  when 
in  1832  most  of  them  appeared  together  in  the  Scenes  de  la 
Vie  Privee  they  were  independent  stories;  and  that  when  the 
author  did  put  them  together,  he  at  first  adopted  the  title 
Meme  Histoire. 

La  Femme  Abandonnee  appeared  in  the  Revue  de  Paris  for 
September  1832,  was  a  Scene  de  la  Vie  de  Province  next  year, 
and  was  shifted  to  the  Vie  Privee  when  the  Comedie  was  first 
arranged.  La  Grenadiere  followed  it  in  the  same  review  next 
month,  and  had  the  same  subsequent  history.  The  record 
of  Le  Message  is  much  more  complicated ;  and  I  must  again 
refer  those  who  wish  to  follow  it  exactly  to  M.  de  Lovenjoul. 
It  is  enough  here  to  say  that  it  at  first  appeared  in  the  mid- 
February  issue  of  the  Deux  Mondes  for  1832,  then  compli- 
cated itself  with  La  Grande  Breteche  and  its  companion  tales, 
and  then  imitated  the  stories  which  here  precede  it  by  being 
first  a  "provincial,"  and  then,  as  it  had  already  been,  a  "pri- 
vate" scene.  Gobseck,  unlike  all  these,  had  no  newspaper 
ushering,  but  was  a  Scene  de  la  Vie  Privee  from  the  first  use 
of  that  title  in  1830.  Its  own  title,  however,  Les  Dangers 
de  flnconduite  and  Papa  Gobseck,  varied  a  little,  and  it  once 
made  an  excursion  to  the  Scenes  de  la  Vie  Parisienne,  but 
returned.  Pierre  Grassou  was  first  printed  in  a  miscellany 
named  Babel  in  the  year  1840,  was  republished  with  Pierrette 
in  the  same  year,  and  joined  the  "Maison  de  Balzac"  in  1844. 

G.  S. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

To  Louis  Boulanger,  Painter. 
I. 

EARLY    MISTAKES 

IT  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  beginning  of  April  1813,  a 
morning  which  gave  promise  of  one  of  those  bright  days  when 
Parisians,  for  the  first  time  in  the  year,  behold  dry  pavements 
underfoot  and  a  cloudless  sky  overhead.  It  was  not  yet  noon 
when  a  luxurious  cabriolet,  drawn  by  two  spirited  horses, 
turned  out  of  the  Rue  de  Castiglione  into  the  Eue  de  Rivoli, 
and  drew  up  behind  a  row  of  carriages  standing  before  the 
newly  opened  barrier  half-way  down  the  Terrasse  des  Feuil- 
lants.  The  owner  of  the  carriage  looked  anxious  and  out  of 
health;  the  thin  hair  on  his  sallow  temples,  turning  gray 
already,  gave  a  look  of  premature  age  to  his  face.  He  flung 
the  reins  to  a  servant  who  followed  on  horseback,  and  alighted 
to  take  in  his  arms  a  young  girl  whose  dainty  beauty  had 
already  attracted  the  eyes  of  loungers  on  the  Terrasse.  The 
little  lad}%  standing  upon  the  carriage  step,  graciously  sub- 
mitted to  be  taken  by  the  waist,  putting  an  arm  round  the 
neck  of  her  guide,  who  set  her  down  upon  the  pavement  with- 
out so  much  as  ruffling  the  trimming  of  her  green  rep  dress. 
No  lover  would  have  been  so  careful.  The  stranger  could  only 
be  the  father  of  the  young  girl,  who  took  his  arm  familiarly 
without  a  word  of  thanks,  and  hurried  him  into  the  Garden 
of  the  Tuileries. 

The  old  father  noted  the  wondering  stare  which  some  of  the 
young  men  gave  the  couple,  and  the  sad  expression  left  his 
VOL.  5-25  (1) 


2  A   WOMAN    OF  THIRTY 

face  for  a  moment.  Although  lie  had  long  since  reached  the 
time  of  life  when  a  man  is  fain  to  be  content  with  such  il- 
lusory delights  as  vanity  bestows,  he  began  to  smile. 

"They  think  you  are  my  wife,"  he  said  in  the  young  lady's 
ear,  and  he  held  himself  erect  and  walked  with  slow  steps, 
which  filled  his  daughter  with  despair. 

He  seemed  to  take  up  the  coquette's  part  for  her;  perhaps 
of  the  two,  he  was  the  more  gratified  by  the  curious  glances 
directed  at  those  little  feet,  shod  with  plum-colored  prunella ; 
at  the  dainty  figure  outlined  by  a  low-cut  bodice,  filled  in  with 
an  embroidered  chemisette,  which  only  partially  concealed  the 
girlish  throat.  Her  dress  was  lifted  by  her  movements  as  she 
walked,  giving  glimpses  higher  than  the  shoes  of  delicately 
moulded  outlines  beneath  open-work  silk  stockings.  More 
than  one  of  the  idlers  turned  and  passed  the  pair  again,  to  ad- 
mire or  to  catch  a  second  glimpse  of  the  young  face,  about 
which  the  brown  tresses  played ;  there  was  a  glow  in  its  white 
and  red,  partly  reflected  from  the  rose-colored  satin  lining 
of  her  fashionable  bonnet,  partly  due  to  the  eagerness  and  im- 
patience which  sparkled  in  every  feature.  A  mischievous 
sweetness  lighted  up  the  beautiful,  almond-shaped  dark  eyes, 
bathed  in  liquid  brightness,  shaded  by  the  long  lashes  and 
curving  arch  of  eyebrow.  Life  and  youth  displayed  their 
treasures  in  the  petulant  face  and  in  the  gracious  outlines  of 
the  bust  unspoiled  even  by  the  fashion  of  the  day,  which 
brought  the  girdle  under  the  breast. 

The  young  lady  herself  appeared  to  be  insensible  to  ad- 
miration. Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  sort  of  anxiety  on  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  the  goal,  doubtless,  of  her  petulant 
promenade.  It  wanted  but  fifteen  minutes  of  noon,  yet  even 
at  that  early  hour  several  women  in  gala  dress  were  coming 
away  from  the  Tuileries,  not  without  backward  glances  at 
the  gates  and  pouting  looks  of  discontent,  as  if  they  regretted 
the  lateness  of  the  arrival  which  had  cheated  them  of  a  longed- 
for  spectacle.  Chance  carried  a  few  words  let  fall  by  one 
of  these  disappointed  fair  ones  to  the  ears  of  the  charming 
stranger,  and  put  her  in  a  more  than  common  uneasiness.  The 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  3 

elderly  man  watched  the  signs  of  impatience  and  appre- 
hension which  flitted  across  his  companion's  pretty  face  with 
interest,  rather  than  amusement,  in  his  eyes,  observing  her 
with  a  close  and  careful  attention,  which  perhaps  could  only 
be  prompted  by  some  after-thought  in  the  depths  of  a  father's 
mind. 

It  was  the  thirteenth  Sunday  of  the  year  1813.     In  two 

days'  time  Napoleon  was  to  set  out  upon  the  disastrous  cam- 
paign in  which  he  was  to  lose  first  Bessieres,  and  then  Duroc ; 
he  was  to  win  the  memorable  battles  of  Lutzen  and  Bautzen, 
to  see  himself  treacherously  deserted  by  Austria,  Saxony, 
Bavaria,  and  Bernadotte,  and  to  dispute  the  dreadful  field  of 
Leipsic.  The  magnificent  review  commanded  for  that  day 
by  the  Emperor  was  to  be  the  last  of  so  many  which  had  long 
drawn  forth  the  admiration  of  Paris  and  of  foreign  visitors. 
For  the  last  time  the  Old  Guard  would  execute  their  scientific 
military  manoeuvres  with  the  pomp  and  precision  which  some- 
times amazed  the  Giant  himself.  Napoleon  was  nearly  ready 
for  his  duel  with  Europe.  It  was  a  sad  sentiment  which 
brought  a  brilliant  and  curious  throng  to  the  Tuileries.  Each 
mind  seemed  to  foresee  the  future,  perhaps  too  in  every  mind 
another  thought  was  dimly  present,  how  that  in  that  future, 
when  the  heroic  age  of  France  should  have  taken  the  half- 
fabulous  color  with  which  it  is  tinged  for  us  to-day,  men's 
imaginations  would  more  than  once  seek  to  retrace  the  picture 
of  the  pageant  which  they  were  assembled  to  behold. 

"Do  let  us  go  more  quickly,  father ;  I  can  hear  the  drums," 
the  young  girl  said,  and  in  a  half-teasing,  half-coaxing  man- 
ner she  urged  her  companion  forward. 

"The  troops  are  marching  into  the  Tuileries,"  said  he. 

"Or  marching  out  of  it — everybody  is  coming  away,"  she 
answered  in  childish  vexation,  which  drew  a  smile  from  her 
father. 

"The  review  only  begins  at  half-past  twelve,"  he  said;  he 
had  fallen  half  behind  his  impetuous  daughter. 

It  might  have  been  supposed  that  she  meant  to  hasten  their 


4  A   WOMAN    OP  THIRTY 

progress  by  the  movement  of  her  right  arm,  for  it  swung  like 
an  oar  blade  through  the  water.  In  her  impatience  she  had 
crushed  her  handkerchief  into  a  ball  in  her  tiny,  well-gloved 
fingers.  Now  and  then  the  old  man  smiled,  but  the  smiles 
were  succeeded  by  an  anxious  look  which  crossed  his  withered 
face  and  saddened  it.  In  his  love  for  the  fair  young  girl  by 
his  side,  he  was  as  fain  to  exalt  the  present  moment  as  to  dread 
the  future.  "She  is  happy  to-day;  will  her  happiness  last?" 
he  seemed  to  ask  himself,  for  the  old  are  somewhat  prone  to 
foresee  their  own  sorrows  in  the  future  of  the  young. 

Father  and  daughter  reached  the  peristyle  under  the  tower 
where  the  tricolor  flag  was  still  waving;  but  as  they  passed 
under  the  arch  by  which  people  came  and  went  between  the 
Gardens  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  the 
sentries  on  guard  called  out  sternly : 

"No  admittance  this  way." 

By  standing  on  tiptoe  the  young  girl  contrived  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  women,  thronging  either 
side  of  the  old  marble  arcade  along  which  the  Emperor  was  to 
pass. 

"We  were  too  late  in  starting,  father ;  you  can  see  that  quite 
well."  A  little  piteous  pout  revealed  the  immense  importance 
which  she  attached  to  the  sight  of  this  particular  review. 

"Very  well,  Julie — let  us  go  away.     You  dislike  a  crush." 

"Do  let  us  stay,  father.  Even  here  I  may  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  Emperor ;  he  might  die  during  this  campaign,  and  then 
I  should  never  have  seen  him." 

Her  father  shuddered  at  the  selfish  speech.  There  were 
tears  in  the  girl's  voice ;  he  looked  at  her,  and  thought  that  he 
saw  tears  beneath  her  lowered  eyelids;  tears  caused  not  so 
much  by  the  disappointment  as  by  one  of  the  troubles  of  early 
youth,  a  secret  easily  guessed  by  an  old  father.  Suddenly 
Julie's  face  flushed,  and  she  uttered  an  exclamation.  Neither 
her  father  nor  the  sentinels  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
cry ;  but  an  officer  within  the  barrier,  who  sprang  across  the 
court  towards  the  staircase,  heard  it,  and  turned  abruptly 
at  the  sound.  He  went  to  the  arcade  by  the  Gardens  of  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  5 

Tuileries,  and  recognized  the  young  lady  who  had  been  hidden 
for  a  moment  by  the  tall  bearskin  caps  of  the  grenadiers.  He 
set  aside  in  favor  of  the  pair  the  order  which  he  himself  had 
given.  Then,  taking  no  heed  of  the  murmurings  of  the  fash- 
ionable crowd  seated  under  the  arcade,  he  gently  drew  the  en- 
raptured child  towards  him. 

"I  am  no  longer  surprised  at  her  vexation  and  enthusiasm, 
if  you  are  in  waiting,"  the  old  man  said  with  a  half-mocking, 
half-serious  glance  at  the  officer. 

"If  you  want  a  good  position,  M.  le  Due,"  the  young  man 
answered,  "we  must  not  spend  any  time  in  talking.  The 
Emperor  does  not  like  to  .be  kept  waiting,  and  the  Grand 
Marshal  has  sent  me  to  announce  our  readiness." 

As  he  spoke,  he  had  taken  Julie's  arm  with  a  certain  air  of 
old  acquaintance,  and  drew  her  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the 
Place  du  Carrousel.  Julie  was  astonished  at  the  sight.  An 
immense  crowd  was  penned  up  in  a  narrow  space,  shut  in  be- 
tween the  gray  walls  of  the  palace  and  the  limits  marked  out 
by  chains  round  the  great  sanded  squares  in  the  midst  of  the 
courtyard  of  the  Tuileries.  The  cordon  of  sentries  posted 
to  keep  a  clear  passage  for  the  Emperor  and  his  staff  had 
great  difficulty  in  keeping  back  the  eager  humming  swarm  of 
human  beings. 

"Is  it  going  to  be  a  very  fine  sight?"  Julie  asked  (she  was 
radiant  now). 

"Pray  take  care  !"  cried  her  guide,  and  seizing  Julie  by  the 
waist,  he  lifted  her  up  with  as  much  vigor  as  rapidity  and  set 
her  down  beside  a  pillar. 

But  for  his  prompt  action,  his  gazing  kinswoman  would 
have  come  into  collision  with  the  hindquarters  of  a  white  horse 
which  Napoleon's  Mameluke  held  by  the  bridle ;  the  animal  in 
its  trappings  of  green  velvet  and  gold  stood  almost  under  the 
arcade,  some  ten  paces  behind  the  rest  of  the  horses  in  readi- 
ness for  the  Emperor's  staff. 

The  young  officer  placed  the  father  and  daughter  in  front 
of  the  crowd  in  the  first  space  to  the  right,  and  recommended 
them  by  a  sign  to  the  two  veteran  grenadiers  on  either  side. 


6  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

Then  he  went  on  his  way  into  the  palace ;  a  look  of  great  joy 
and  happiness  had  succeeded  to  his  horror-struck  expression 
when  the  horse  backed.  Julie  had  given  his  hand  a  mysterious 
pressure;  had  she  meant  to  thank  him  for  the  little  service 
he  had  done  her,  or  did  she  tell  him,  "After  all,  I  shall  really 
see  you  ?"  She  bent  her  head  quite  graciously  in  response  to 
the  respectful  bow  by  which  the  officer  took  leave  of  them  be- 
fore he  vanished. 

The  old  man  stood  a  little  behind  his  daughter.  He  looked 
grave.  He  seemed  to  have  left  the  two  young  people  together 
for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  now  he  furtively  watched  the 
girl,  trying  to  lull  her  into  false  securit}r  by  appearing  to  give 
his  whole  attention  to  the  magnificent  sight  in  the  Place  du 
Carrousel.  When  Julie's  eyes  turned  to  her  father  with  the 
expression  of  a  schoolboy  before  his  master,  he  answered  her 
glance  by  a  gay,  kindly  smile,  but  his  own  keen  eyes  had  fol- 
lowed the  officer  under  the  arcade,  and  nothing  of  all  that 
passed  was  lost  upon  him. 

"What  a  grand  sight !"  said  Julie  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
pressed  her  father's  hand;  and  indeed  the  pomp  and  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  spectacle  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel  drew  the 
same  exclamation  from  thousands  upon  thousands  of  specta- 
tors, all  agape  with  wonder.  Another  array  of  sightseers,  as 
tightly  packed  as  the  ranks  behind  the  old  noble  and  his 
daughter,  filled  the  narrow  strip  of  pavement  by  the  railings 
which  crossed  the  Place  du  Carrousel  from  side  to  side  in  a 
line  parallel  with  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries.  The  dense 
living  mass,  variegated  by  the  colors  of  the  women's  dresses, 
traced  out  a  bold  line  across  the  centre  of  the  Place  du  Car- 
rousel, filling  in  the  fourth  side  of  a  vast  parallelogram,  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries  itself. 
Within  the  precincts  thus  railed  off  stood  the  regiments  of  the 
Old  Guard  about  to  be  passed  in  review,  drawn  up  opposite  the 
Palace  in  imposing  blue  columns,  ten  ranks  in  depth.  With- 
out and  beyond  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel  stood  several  regi- 
ments likewise  drawn  up  in  parallel  lines,  ready  to  march 
in  through  the  arch  in  the  centre ;  the  Triumphal  Arch,  where 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  ? 

the  bronze  horses  of  St.  Mark  from  Venice  used  to  stand  in 
those  days.  At  either  end,  by  the  Galeries  du  Louvre,  the 
regimental  bands  were  stationed,  masked  by  the  Polish 
Lancers  then  on  duty. 

The  greater  part  of  the  vast  graveled  space  was  empty  as  an 
arena,  ready  for  the  evolutions  of  those  silent  masses  disposed 
with  the  symmetry  of  military  art.  The  sunlight  blazed  back 
from  ten  thousand  bayonets  in  thin  points  of  flame;  the  breeze 
ruffled  the  men's  helmet  plumes  till  they  swayed  like  the  crests 
of  forest-trees  before  a  gale.  The  mute  glittering  ranks  of 
veterans  were  full  of  bright  contrasting  colors,  thanks  to  their 
different  uniforms,  weapons,  accoutrements,  and  aiguillettes ; 
and  the  whole  great  picture,  that  miniature  battle-field  before 
the  combat,  was  framed  by  the  majestic  towering  walls  of  the 
Tuileries,  which  officers  and  men  seemed  to  rival  in  their  im- 
mobility. Involuntarily  the  spectator  made  the  comparison 
between  the  walls  of  men  and  the  walls  of  stone.  The  spring 
sunlight,  flooding  white  masonry  reared  but  yesterday  and 
buildings  centuries  old,  shone  full  likewise  upon  thousands 
of  bronzed  faces,  each  one  with  its  own  tale  of  perils  passed, 
each  one  gravely  expectant  of  perils  to  come. 

The  colonels  of  the  regiments  came  and  went  alone  before 
the  ranks  of  heroes ;  and  behind  the  masses  of  troops,  check- 
ered with  blue  and  silver  and  gold  and  purple,  the  curious 
could  discern  the  tricolor  pennons  on  the  lances  of  some  half- 
a-dozen  indefatigable  Polish  cavalry,  rushing  about  like  shep- 
herds' dogs  in  charge  of  a  flock,  caracoling  up  and  down  be- 
tween the  troops  and  the  crowd,  to  keep  the  gazers  within  their 
proper  bounds.  But  for  this  slight  flutter  of  movement,  the 
whole  scene  might  have  been  taking  place  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  The  very  spring  breeze, 
ruffling  up  the  long  fur  on  the  grenadiers'  bearskins,  bore 
witness  to  the  men's  immobility,  as  the  smothered  murmur 
of  the  crowd  emphasized  their  silence.  Now  and  again  the 
jingling  of  Chinese  bells,  or  a  chance  blow  to  a  big  drum,  woke 
the  reverberating  echoes  of  the  Imperial  Palace  with  a  sound 
like  the  far-off  rumblings  of  thunder. 


8  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

An  indescribable,  unmistakable  enthusiasm  was  manifest  in 
the  expectancy  of  the  multitude.  France  was  about  to  take 
farewell  of  Napoleon  on  the  eve  of  a  campaign  of  which  the 
meanest  citizen  foresaw  the  perils.  The  existence  of  the 
French  Empire  was  at  stake — to  be,  or  not  to  be.  The  whole 
citizen  population  seemed  to  be  as  much  inspired  with  this 
thought  as  that  other  armed  population  standing  in  serried 
and  silent  ranks  in  the  enclosed  space,  with  the  Eagles  and 
the  genius  of  Napoleon  hovering  above  them. 

Those  very  soldiers  were  the  hope  of  France,  her  last  drop 
of  blood ;  and  this  accounted  for  not  a  little  of  the  anxious  in- 
terest of  the  scene.  Most  of  the  gazers  in  the  crowd  had  bidden 
farewell — perhaps  farewell  for  ever — to  the  men  who  made 
up  the  rank  and  file  of  the  battalions;  and  even  those  most 
hostile  to  the  Emperor,  in  their  hearts,  put  up  fervent  prayers 
to  heaven  for  the  glory  of  France ;  and  those  most  weary  of  the 
struggle  with  the  rest  of  Europe  had  left  their  hatreds 
behind  as  they  passed  in  under  the  Triumphal  Arch.  They 
too  felt  that  in  the  hour  of  danger  Napoleon  meant  France 
herself. 

The  clock  of  the  Tuileries  struck  the  half-hour.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  hum  of  the  crowd  ceased.  The  silence  was  so  deep 
that  you  might  have  heard  a  child  speak.  The  old  noble  and 
his  daughter,  wholly  intent,  seeming  to  live  only  by  their  eyes, 
caught  a  distinct  sound  of  spurs  and  clank  of  swords  echoing 
up  under  the  sonorous  peristyle. 

And  suddenly  there  appeared  a  short,  somewhat  stout  figure 
in  a  green  uniform,  white  trousers,  and  riding  boots ;  a  man 
wearing  on  his  head  a  cocked  hat  well-nigh  as  magically  po- 
tent as  its  wearer;  the  broad  red  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  rose  and  fell  on  his  breast,  and  a  short  sword  hung 
at  his  side.  At  one  and  the  same  moment  the  man  was  seen 
by  all  eyes  in  all  parts  of  the  square. 

Immediately  the  drums  beat  a  salute,  both  bands  struck 
up  a  martial  refrain,  caught  and  repeated  like  a  fugue  by  every 
instrument  from  the  thinnest  flutes  to  the  largest  drum.  The 
clangor  of  that  call  to  arms  thrilled  through  every  soul.  The 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  9 

colors  dropped,  and  the  men  presented  arras,  one  unanimous 
rhythmical  movement  shaking  every  bayonet  from  the  fore- 
most front  near  the  Palace  to  the  last  rank  in  the  Place  du 
Carrousel.  The  words  of  command  sped  from  line  to  line  like 
echoes.  The  whole  enthusiastic  multitude  sent  up  a  shout  of 
"Long  live  the  Emperor !" 

Everything  shook,  quivered,  and  thrilled  at  last.  Napoleon 
had  mounted  his  horse.  It  was  his  movement  that  had  put 
life  into  those  silent  masses  of  men;  the  dumb  instruments 
had  found  a  voice  at  his  coming,  the  Eagles  and  the  colors 
had  obeyed  the  same  impulse  which  had  brought  emotion  into 
all  faces. 

The  very  walls  of  the  high  galleries  of  the  old  palace  seemed 
to  cry  aloud,  "Long  live  the  Emperor  I" 

There  was  something  preternatural  about  it — it  was  magic 
at  work,  a  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  power  of  God;  or 
rather  it  was  a  fugitive  image  of  a  reign  itself  so  fugitive. 

And  he  the  centre  of  such  love,  such  enthusiasm  and  de- 
votion, and  so  many  prayers,  he  for  whom  the  sun  had  driven 
the  clouds  from  the  sky,  was  sitting  there  on  his  horse,  three 
paces  in  front  of  his  Golden  Squadron,  with  the  Grand 
Marshal  on  his  left,  and  the  Marshal-in-waiting  on  his  right. 
Amid  all  the  outburst  of  enthusiasm  at  his  presence  not  a 
feature  of  his  face  appeared  to  alter. 

"Oh !  yes.  At  Wagram,  in  the  thick  of  the  firing,  on  the 
field  of  Borodino,  among  the  dead,  always  as  cool  as  a 
cucumber  he  is  !"  said  the  grenadier,  in  answer  to  the  questions 
with  which  the  young  girl  plied  him.  For  a  moment  Julie 
was  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  that  face,  so  quiet  in  the 
security  of  conscious  power.  The  Emperor  noticed  Mile,  de 
Chatillonest,  and  leaned  to  make  some  brief  remark  to 
Duroc,  which  drew  a  .smile  from  the  Grand  Marshal.  Then 
the  review  began. 

If  hitherto  the  young  lady's  attention  had  been  divided 
between  Napoleon's  impassive  face  and  the  blue,  red,  and 
green  ranks  of  troops,  from  this  time  forth  she  was  wholly 
intent  upon  a  young  officer  moving  among  the  lines  as  they 


10  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

performed  their  swift  symmetrical  evolutions.  She  watched 
him  gallop  with  tireless  activity  to  and  from  the  group  where 
the  plainly  dressed  Napoleon  shone  conspicuous.  The  officer 
rode  a  splendid  black  horse.  His  handsome  sky-blue  uniform 
marked  him  out  amid  the  variegated  multitude  as  one  of  the 
Emperor's  orderly  staff-officers.  His  gold  lace  glittered  in  the 
sunshine  which  lighted  up  the  aigrette  on  his  tall,  narrow 
shako,  so  that  the  gazer  might  have  compared  him  to  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp,  or  to  a  visible  spirit  emanating  from  the  Em- 
peror to  infuse  movement  into  those  battalions  whose  swaying 
bayonets  flashed  into  flames;  for,  at  a  mere  glance  from  his 
eyes,  they  broke  and  gathered  again,  surging  to  and  fro  like 
the  waves  in  a  bay,  or  again  swept  before  him  like  the  long 
ridges  of  high-crested  wave  which  the  vexed  Ocean  directs 
against  the  shore. 

When  the  manoeuvres  were  over  the  officer  galloped  back 
at  full  speed,  pulled  up  his  horse,  and  awaited  orders.  He 
was  not  ten  paces  from  Julie  as  he  stood  before  the  Emperor, 
much  as  General  Rapp  stands  in  Gerard's  Battle  of  Austerlitz. 
The  young  girl  could  behold  her  lover  in  all  his  soldierly 
splendor. 

Colonel  Victor  d'Aiglemont,  barely  thirty  years  of  age,  was 
tall,  slender,  and  well  made.  His  well-proportioned  figure 
never  showed  to  better  advantage  than  now  as  he  exerted  his 
strength  to  hold  in  the  restive  animal,  whose  back  seemed  to 
curve  gracefully  to  the  rider's  weight.  His  brown  masculine 
face  possessed  the  indefinable  charm  of  perfectly  regular 
features  combined  with  youth.  The  fiery  eyes  under  the  broad 
forehead,  shaded  by  thick  eyebrows  and  long  lashes,  looked 
like  white  ovals  bordered  by  an  outline  of  black.  His  nose 
had  the  delicate  curve  of  an  eagle's  beak ;  the  sinuous  lines  of 
the  inevitable  black  moustache  enhanced  the  crimson  of  the 
lips.  The  brown  and  tawny  shades  which  overspread  the 
wide  high-colored  cheeks  told  a  tale  of  unusual  vigor,  and  his 
whole  face  bore  the  impress  of  dashing  courage.  He  was  the 
very  model  which  French  artists  seek  to-day  for  the  typical 
hero  of  Imperial  France.  The  horse  which  he  rode  was  covered 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  11 

with  sweat,  the  animal's  quivering  head  denoted  the  lastdegree 
of  restiveness;  his  hind  hoofs  were  set  down  wide  apart  and 
exactly  in  a  line,  he  shook  his  long  thick  tail  to  the  wind ;  in 
his  fidelity  to  his  master  he  seemed  to  be  a  visible  presentment 
of  that  master's  devotion  to  the  Emperor. 

Julie  saw  her  lover  watching  intently  for  the  Emperor's 
glances,  and  felt  a  momentary  pang  of  jealousy,  for  as  yet  he 
'had  not  given  her  a  look.  Suddenly  at  a  word  from  his 
sovereign  Victor  gripped  his  horse's  flanks  and  set  out  at  a 
gallop,  but  the  animal  took  fright  at  a  shadow  cast  by  a  post, 
shied,  backed,  and  reared  up  so  suddenly  that  his  rider  was  all 
but  thrown  off.  Julie  cried  out,  her  face  grew  white,  people 
looked  at  her  curiously,  but  she  saw  no  one,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  too  mettlesome  beast.  The  officer  gave  the  horse 
a  sharp  admonitory  cut  with  the  whip,  and  galloped  off  with 
Napoleon's  order. 

Julie  was  so  absorbed,  so  dizzy  with  sights  and  sounds,  that 
unconsciously  she  clung  to  her  father's  arm  so  tightly  that  he 
could  read  her  thoughts  by  the  varying  pressure  of  her  fingers. 
When  Victor  was  all  but  flung  out  of  the  saddle,  she  clutched 
her  father  with  a  convulsive  grip  as  if  she  herself  were  in 
danger  of  falling,  and  the  old  man  looked  at  his  daughter's 
tell-tale  face  with  dark  and  painful  anxiety.  Pity,  jealousy, 
something  even  of  regret  stole  across  every  drawn  and  wrin- 
kled line  of  mouth  and  brow.  When  he  saw  the  unwonted 
light  in  Julie's  eyes,  when  that  cry  broke  from  her,  when  the 
convulsive  grasp  of  her  fingers  drew  away  the  veil  and  put 
him  in  possession  of  her  secret,  then  with  that  revelation 
of  her  love  there  came  surely  some  swift  revelation  of  the 
future.  Mournful  forebodings  could  be  read  in  his  own  face. 

Julie's  soul  seemed  at  that  moment  to  have  passed  into  the 
officer's  being.  A  torturing  thought  more  cruel  than  any 
previous  dread  contracted  the  old  man's  painworn  features, 
as  he  saw  the  glance  of  understanding  that  passed  between 
the  soldier  and  Julie.  The  girl's  eyes  were  wet,  her  cheeks 
glowed  with  unwonted  color.  Her  father  turned  abruptly  and 
led  her  away  into  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries. 


12  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

"Why,  father,"  she  cried,  "there  are  still  the  regiments  in 
the  Place  du  Carrousel  to  be  passed  in  review." 

"No,  child,  all  the  troops  are  marching  out." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  father ;  M.  d'Aiglemont  surely 
told  them  to  advance " 

"But  I  feel  ill,  my  child,  and  I  do  not  care  to  stay." 
.  Julie  could  readily  believe  the  words  when  she  glanced 
at  his  face ;  he  looked  quite  worn  out  by  his  fatherly  anxieties. 

"Are  you  feeling  very  ill?"  she  asked  indifferently,  her 
mind  was  so  full  of  other  thoughts. 

"Every  day  is  a  reprieve  for  me,  is  it  not?"  returned  her 
father. 

"Now  do  you  mean  to  make  me  miserable  again  by  talking 
about  your  death  ?  I  was  in  such  spirits !  Do  pray  get  rid 
of  those  horrid  gloomy  ideas  of  yours." 

The  father  heaved  a  sigh.  "Ah!  spoiled  child,"  he  cried, 
"the  best  hearts  are  sometimes  very  cruel.  We  devote  our 
whole  lives  to  you,  you  are  our  one  thought,  we  plan  for  your 
welfare,  sacrifice  our  tastes  to  your  whims,  idolize  you,  give 
the  very  blood  in  our  veins  for  you,  and  all  this  is  nothing, 
is  it  ?  Alas  !  yes,  you  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  we 
would  always  have  your  smiles  and  your  disdainful  love,  we 
should  need  the  power  of  God  in  heaven.  Then  comes  another, 
a  lover,  a  husband,  and  steals  away  your  heart." 

Julie  looked  in  amazement  at  her  father ;  he  walked  slowly 
along,  and  there  was  no  light  in  the  eyes  which  he  turned  upon 
her. 

"You  hide  yourself  even  from  us,"  he  continued,  "but,  per- 
haps, also  you  hide  yourself  from  yourself " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that,  father  ?" 

"I  think  that  you  have  secrets  from  me,  Julie. — You  love," 
he  went  on  quickly,  as  he  saw  the  color  rise  to  her  face.  "Oh ! 
I  hoped  that  you  would  stay  with  your  old  father  until  he 
died.  I  hoped  to  keep  you  with  me,  still  radiant  and  happy, 
to  admire  you  as  you  were  but  so  lately.  So  long  as  I  knew 
nothing  of  your  future  I  could  believe  in  a  happy  lot  for  you ; 
but  now  I  cannot  possibly  take  away  with  me  a  hope  of  happi- 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  13 

ness  for  your  life,  for  you  love  the  colonel  even  more  than 
the  cousin.  I  can  no  longer  doubt  it." 

"And  why  should  I  be  forbidden  to  love  him  ?"  asked  Julie, 
with  lively  curiosity  in  her  face. 

"Ah,  my  Julie,  you  would  not  understand  me,"  sighed  the 
father. 

"Tell  me,  all  the  same,"  said  Julie,  with  an  involuntary 
petulant  gesture. 

"Very  well,  child,  listen  to  me.  Girls  are  apt  to  imagine 
noble  and  enchanting  and  totally  imaginary  figures  in  their 
own  minds;  they  have  fanciful  extravagant  ideas  about  men, 
and  sentiment,  and  life;  and  then  they  innocently  endow 
somebody  or  other  with  all  the  perfections  of  their  day-dreams, 
and  put  their  trust  in  him.  They  fall  in  love  with  this  imag- 
inary creature  in  the  man  of  their  choice;  and  then,  when  it 
is  too  late  to  escape  from  their  fate,  behold  their  first 
idol,  the  illusion  made  fair  with  their  fancies,  turns  to  an 
odious  skeleton.  Julie,  I  would  rather  have  you  fall  in  love 
with  an  old  man  than  with  the  Colonel.  Ah !  if  you  could  but 
see  things  from  the  standpoint  of  ten  years  hence,  you  would 
admit  than  my  old  experience  was  right.  I  know  what  Victor 
is,  that  gaiety  of  his  is  simply  animal  spirits — the  gaiety  of 
the  barracks.  He  has  no  ability,  and  he  is  a  spendthrift.  He  is 
one  of  those  men  whom  Heaven  created  to  eat  and  digest  four 
meals  a  day,  to  sleep,  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first  woman  that 
comes  to  hand,  and  to  fight.  He  does  not  understand  life. 
His  kind  heart,  for  he  has  a  kind  heart,  will  perhaps  lead  him 
to  give  his  purse  to  a  sufferer  or  to  a  comrade ;  but  he  is  care- 
less, he  has  not  the  delicacy  of  heart  which  makes  us  slaves  to 
a  woman's  happiness,  he  is  ignorant,  he  is  selfish.  There  are 
plenty  of  buts " 

"But,  father,  he  must  surely  be  clever,  he  must  have  ability, 
or  he  would  not  be  a  colonel — 

"My  dear,  Victor  will  be  a  colonel  all  his  life. — I  have 
seen  no  one  who  appears  to  me  to  be  worthy  of  you,"  the  Old 
father  added,  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm. 

He  paused  an  instant,  looked  at  his  daughter,  and  added. 


14  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

"Why,  my  poor  Julie,  you  are  still  too  young,  too  fragile,  too 
delicate  for  the  cares  and  rubs  of  married  life.  D'Aiglemont's 
relations  have  spoiled  him,  just  as  your  mother  and  I  have 
spoiled  you.  What  hope  is  there  that  you  two  could  agree, 
with  two  imperious  wills  diametrically  opposed  to  each  other  ? 
You  will  be  either  the  tyrant  or  the  victim,  and  either  alter- 
native means,  for  a  wife,  an  equal  sum  of  misfortune.  But 
you  are  modest  and  sweet-natured,  you  would  yield  from  the 
first.  In  short,"  he  added,  in  a  quivering  voice,  "there  is  a 
grace  of  feeling  in  you  which  would  never  be  valued,  and 
then "  he  broke  off,  for  the  tears  overcame  him. 

"Victor  will  give  you  pain  through  all  the  girlish  quali- 
ties of  your  young  nature,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause.  "I 
know  what  soldiers  are,  my  Julie;  I  have  been  in  the  army. 
In  a  man  of  that  kind,  love  very  seldom  gets  the  better  of  old 
habits,  due  partly  to  the  miseries  arnid  which  soldiers  live, 
partly  to  the  risks  they  run  in  a  life  of  adventure." 

"Then  you  mean  to  cross  my  inclinations,  do  you, 
father?"  asked  Julie,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest.  "Am 
I  to  marry  to  please  you  and  not  to  please  myself  ?" 

"To  please  me  I"  cried  her  father,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
"To  please  me,  child  ?  when  you  will  not  hear  the  voice  that 
upbraids  you  so  tenderly  very  much  longer !  But  I  have  always 
heard  children  impute  personal  motives  for  the  sacrifices  that 
their  parents  make  for  them.  Marry  Victor,  my  Julie !  Some 
day  you  will  bitterly  deplore  his  ineptitude,  his  thriftless  ways, 
his  selfishness,  his  lack  of  delicacy,  his  inability  to  under- 
stand love,  and  countless  troubles  arising  through  him.  Then, 
remember,  that  here  under  these  trees  your  old  father's  pro- 
phetic voice  sounded  in  your  ears  in  vain." 

He  said  no  more ;  he  had  detected  a  rebellious  shake  of  the 
head  on  his  daughter's  part.  Both  made  several  paces  towards 
the  carriage  which  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  grating.  Dur- 
ing that  interval  of  silence,  the  young  girl  stole  a  glance  at  her 
father's  face,  and  little  by  little  her  sullen  brow  cleared.  The 
intense  pain  visible  on  his  bowed  forehead  made  a  lively  im- 
pression upon  her. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  15 

"Father,"  she  began  in  gentle  tremulous  tones,  "I  promise 
to  say  no  mo-re  about  Victor  until  you  have  overcome  your 
prejudices  against  him." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Two  tears  which 
filled  his  eyes  overflowed  down  his  withered  cheeks.  He  could 
not  take  Julie  in  his  arms  in  that  crowded  place;  but  he 
pressed  her  hand  tenderly.  A  few  minutes  later  when  they 
had  taken  their  places  in  the  cabriolet,  all  the  anxious  thought 
which  had  gathered  about  his  brow  had  completely  disap- 
peared. Julie's  pensive  attitude  gave  him  far  less  concern 
than  the  innocent  joy  which  had  betrayed  her  secret  during 
the  review. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  the  Emperor's  last  re- 
view. In  early  March  1814  a  caleche  was  rolling  along  the 
highroad  from  Amboise  to  Tours.  As  the  carriage  came 
out  from  beneath  the  green-roofed  aisle  of  walnut  trees  by  the 
post-house  of  la  Frilliere,  the  horses  dashed  forward  with  such 
speed  that  in  a  moment  they  gained  the  bridge  built  across  the 
Cise  at  the  point  of  its  confluence  with  the  Loire.  There,  how- 
ever, they  came  to  a  sudden  stand.  One  of  the  traces  had 
given  way  in  consequence  of  the  furious  pace  at  which  the 
post-boy,  obedient  to  his  orders,  had  urged  on  four  horses,  the 
most  vigorous  of  their  breed.  Chance,  therefore,  gave  the 
two  recently  awakened  occupants  of  the  carriage  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  one  of  the  most  lovely  landscapes  along  the 
enchanting  banks  of  the  Loire,  and  that  at  their  full  leisure. 

At  a  glance  the  travelers  could  see  to  the  right  the  whole 
winding  course  of  the  Cise  meandering  like  a  silver  snake 
among  the  meadows,  where  the  grass  had  taken  the  deep, 
bright  green  of  early  spring.  To  the  left  lay  the  Loire  in  all 
its  glory.  A  chill  morning  breeze,  ruffling  the  surface  of  the 
stately  river,  had  fretted  the  broad  sheets  of  water  far  and 
wide  into  a  network  of  ripples,  which  caught  the  gleams  of  the 
sun,  so  that  the  green  islets  here  and  there  in  its  course  shone 
like  gems  set  in  a  gold  necklace.  On  the  opposite  bank  the 
fair  rich  meadows  of  Touraine  stretched  away  as  far  as  the  eye 


16  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

could  see ;  the  low  hills  of  the  Cher,  the  only  limits  to  the  view, 
lay  on  the  far  horizon,  a  luminous  line  against  the  clear  blue 
sky.  Tours  itself,  framed  by  the  trees  on  the  islands  in  a 
setting  of  spring  leaves,  seemed  to  rise  like  Venice  out  of  the 
waters,  and  her  old  cathedral  towers  soaring  in  air  were 
blended  with  the  pale  fantastic  cloud  shapes  in  the  sky. 

Over  the  side  of  the  bridge,  where  the  carriage  had  come 
to  a  stand,  the  traveler  looks  along  a  line  of  cliffs  stretching 
as  far  as  Tours.  Nature  in  some  freakish  mood  must  have 
raised  these  barriers  of  rock,  undermined  incessantly  by  the 
rippling  Loire  at  their  feet,  for  a  perpetual  wonder  for 
spectators.  The  village  of  Vouvray  nestles,  as  it  were,  among 
the  clefts  and  crannies  of  the  crags,  which  begin  to  describe 
a  bend  at  the  junction  of  the  Loire  and  Cise.  A  whole  popu- 
lation of  vine-dressers  lives,  in  fact,  in  appalling  insecurity  in 
holes  in  their  jagged  sides  for  the  whole  way  between  Vou- 
vray and  Tours.  In  some  places  there  are  three  tiers  of  dwell- 
ings hollowed  out,  one  above  the  other,  in  the  rock,  each  row 
communicating  with  the  next  by  dizzy  staircases  cut  likewise 
in  the  face  of  the  cliff.  A  little  girl  in  a  short  red  petticoat 
runs  out  into  her  garden  on  the  roof  of  another  dwelling ;  you 
can  watch  a  wreath  of  hearth-smoke  curling  up  among  the 
shoots  and  trails  of  the  vines.  Men  are  at  work  in  their 
almost  perpendicular  patches  f  of  ground,  an  old  woman  sits 
tranquilly  spinning  under  a  blossoming  almond  tree  on  a 
crumbling  mass  of  rock,  and  smiles  down  on  the  dismay  of  the 
travelers  far  below  her  feet.  The  cracks  in  the  ground  trouble 
her  as  little  as  the  precarious  state  of  the  old  wall,  a  pendant 
mass  of  loose  stones,  only  kept  in  position  by  the  crooked  stems 
of  its  ivy  mantle.  The  sound  of  coopers'  mallets  rings  through 
the  skyey  caves ;  for  here,  where  Nature  stints  human  industry 
rf  soil,  the  soil  is  everywhere  tilled,  and  everywhere  fertile. 

No  view  along  the  whole  course  of  the  Loire  can  compare 
with  the  rich  landscape  of  Tourainc,  here  outspread  beneath 
the  traveler's  eyes.  The  triple  picture,  thus  barely  sketched 
in  outline,  is  one  of  those  scenes  which  the  imagination  en- 
graves for  ever  upon  the  memory;  let  a  poet  fall  under  its 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  17 

charm,  and  he  shall  'be  haunted  by  visions  whicK  shall  re- 
produce its  romantic  loveliness  out  of  the  vague  substance  of 
dreams. 

As  the  carriage  stopped  on  the  bridge  over  the  Cise,  white 
sails  came  out  here  and  there  from  among  the  islands  in  the 
Loire  to  add  new  grace  to  the  perfect  view.  The  subtle  scent 
of  the  willows  by  the  water's  edge  was  mingled  with  the  damp 
:>dor  of  the  breeze  from  the  river.  The  monotonous  chant  of 
a  goat-herd  added  a  plaintive  note  to  the  sound  of  birds' 
songs  in  a  chorus  which  never  ends ;  the  cries  of  the  boatmen 
brought  tidings  of  distant  busy  life.  Here  was  Touraine 
in  all  its  glory,  and  the  very  height  of  the  splendor  of  spring. 
Here  was  the  one  peaceful  district  in  France  in  those  troublous 
days ;  for  it  was  so  unlikely  that  a  foreign  army  should  trouble 
its  quiet  that  Touraine  might  be  said  to  defy  invasion. 

As  soon  as  the  caleche  stopped,  a  head  covered  with  a  forag- 
ing cap  was  put  out  of  the  window,  and  soon  afterwards  an  im- 
patient military  man  flung  open  the  carriage  door  and  sprang 
down  into  the  road  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  the  postilion,  but 
the  skill  with  which  the  Tourangeau  was  repairing  the  trace 
restored  Colonel  d'Aiglemont's  equanimity.  He  went  back 
to  the  carriage,  stretched  himself  to  relieve  his  benumbed 
muscles,  yawned,  looked  about  him,  and  finally  laid  a  hand 
on  the  arm  of  a  young  woman  warmly  wrapped  up  in  a  furred 
pelisse. 

"Come,  Julie,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "just  wake  up  and  take  a 
look  at  this  country.  It  is  magnificent." 

Julie  put  her  head  out  of  the  window.  She  wore  a  traveling 
cap  of  sable  fur.  Nothing  could  be  seen  of  her  but  her  face, 
for  the  whole  of  her  person  was  completely  concealed  by  the 
folds  of  her  fur  pelisse.  The  young  girl  who  tripped  to  the 
review  at  the  Tuileries  with  light  footsteps  and  joy  and  glad- 
ness in  her  heart  was  scarcely  recognizable  in  Julie  d'Aigle- 
mont.  Her  face,  delicate  as  ever,  had  lost  the  rose-color  which 
once  gave  it  so  rich  a  glow.  A  few  straggling  locks  of  black 
hair,  straightened  out  by  the  damp  night  air,  enhanced  its 

dead  whiteness,  and  all  its  life  and  sparkle  seemed  to  be  torpid. 
VOL.  5 — 26 


18  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

Yet  her  eyes  glittered  with  preternatural  brightness  in  spite 
of  the  violet  shadows  under  the  lashes  upon  her  wan  cheeks. 

She  looked  out  with  indifferent  eyes  over  the  fields  towards 
the  Cher,  at  the  islands  in  the  river,  at  the  line  of  the  crags 
of  Vouvray  stretching  along  the  Loire  towards  Tours;  then 
she  sank  back  as  soon  as  possible  into  her  seat  in  the  caleche. 
She  did  not  care  to  give  a  glance  to  the  enchanting  valley  of 
the  Cise. 

"Yes,  it  is  wonderful/'  she  said,  and  out  in  the  open  air  her 
voice  sounded  weak  and  faint  to  the  last  degree.  Evidently 
she  had  had  her  way  with  her  father,  to  her  misfortune. 

"Would  you  not  like  to  live  here,  Julie  ?" 

"Yes ;  here  or  anywhere,"  she  answered  listlessly. 

"Do  you  feel  ill  ?"  asked  Colonel  d'Aiglemont. 

"No,  not  at  all,"  she  answered  with  momentary  energy ;  and, 
smiling  at  her  husband,  she  added,  "I  should  like  to  go  to 
sleep." 

Suddenly  there  came  a  sound  of  a  horse  galloping  towards 
them.  Victor  d'Aiglemont  dropped  his  wife's  hand  and 
turned  to  watch  the  bend  in  the  road.  No  sooner  had  he 
taken  his  eyes  from  Julie's  pale  face  than  all  the  assumed 
gaiety  died  out  of  it ;  it  was  as  if  a  light  had  been  extinguished. 
She  felt  no  wish  to  look  at  the  landscape,  no  curiosity  to  see 
the  horseman  who  was  galloping  towards  them  at  such  a  furi- 
ous pace,  and,  ensconcing  herself  in  her  corner,  stared  out 
before  her  at  the  hindquarters  of  the  post-horses,  looking 
as  blank  as  any  Breton  peasant  listening  to  his  recteur's 
sermon. 

Suddenly  a  young  man  riding  a  valuable  horse  came  out 
from  behind  the  clump  of  poplars  and  flowering  briar-rose. 

"It  is  an  Englishman,"  remarked  the  Colonel. 

"Lord  bless  you,  yes,  General,"  said  the  post-boy;  "he  be- 
longs to  the  race  of  fellows  who  have  a  mind  to  gobble  up 
France,  they  say." 

The  stranger  was  one  of  the  foreigners  traveling  in  France 
at  the  time  when  Napoleon  detained  all  British  subjects  within 
the  limits  of  the  Empire,  by  way  of  reprisals  for  the  violation 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  19 

of  the  Treaty  of  Amiens,  an  outrage  of  international  law  per- 
petrated by  the  Court  of  St.  James.  These  prisoners,  com- 
pelled to  submit  to  the  Emperor's  pleasure,  were  not  all 
suffered  to  remain  in  the  houses  where  they  were  arrested,  nor 
yet  in  the  places  of  residence  which  at  first  they  were  permitted 
to  choose.  Most  of  the  English  colony  in  Touraine  had  been 
transplanted  thither  from  different  places  where  their  presence 
was  supposed  to  be  inimical  to  the  interests  of  the  Continental 
Policy. 

The  young  man,  who  was  taking  the  tedium  of  the  early 
morning  hours  on  horseback,  was  one  of  these  victims  of 
bureaucratic  tyranny.  Two  years  previously,  a  sudden  order 
from  the  Foreign  Office  had  dragged  him  from  Montpellier, 
whither  he  had  gone  on  account  of  consumptive  tendencies.  He 
glanced  at  the  Comte  d'Aiglemont,  saw  that  he  was  a  military 
man,  and  deliberately  looked  away,  turning  his  head  some- 
what abruptly  towards  the  meadows  by  the  Cise. 

"The  English  are  all  as  insolent  as  if  the  globe  belonged 
to  them,"  muttered  the  Colonel.  "Luckily,  Soult  will  give 
them  a  thrashing  directly." 

The  prisoner  gave  a  glance  to  the  caleche  as  he  rode  by. 
Brief  though  that  glance  was,  he  had  yet  time  to  notice  the 
sad  expression  which  lent  an  indefinable  charm  to  the  Count- 
ess' pensive  face.  Many  men  are  deeply  moved  by  the  mere 
semblance  of  suffering  in  a  woman ;  they  take  the  look  of  pain 
for  a  sign  of  constancy  or  of  love.  Julie  herself  was  so  much 
absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  opposite  cushion  that 
she  saw  neither  the  horse  nor  the  rider.  The  damaged  trace 
meanwhile  had  been  quickly  and  strongly  repaired ;  the  Count 
stepped  into  his  place  again ;  and  the  post-boy,  doing  his  best 
to  make  up  for  lost  time,  drove  the  carriage  rapidly  along  the 
embankment.  On  they  drove  under  the  overhanging  cliffs, 
with  their  picturesque  vine-dressers'  huts  and  stores  of  wine 
maturing  in  their  dark  sides,  till  in  the  distance  uprose  the 
spire  of  the  famous  Abbey  of  Marmoutiers,  the  retreat  of  St. 
Martin. 

"What  can  that  diaphanous  milord  want  with  us?"  ex- 


20  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

claimed  the  Colonel,  turning  to  assure  himself  that  the  horse- 
man who  had  followed  them  from  the  bridge  was  the  young 
Englishman. 

After  all,  the  stranger  committed  no  breach  of  good  man- 
ners by  riding  along  on  the  footway,  and  Colonel  d'Aiglemont 
was  fain  to  lie  back  in  his  corner  after  sending  a  scowl  in  the 
Englishman's  direction.  But  in  spite  of  his  hostile  instincts, 
he  could  not  help  noticing  the  beauty  of  the  animal  and  the 
graceful  horsemanship  of  the  rider.  The  young  man's  face 
was  of  that  pale,  fair-complexioned,  insular  type,  which  is 
almost  girlish  in  the  softness  and  delicacy  of  its  color  and 
texture.  He  was  tall,  thin,  and  fair-haired,  dressed  with  the 
extreme  and  elaborate  neatness  characteristic  of  a  man  of 
fashion  in  prudish  England.  Any  one  might  have  thought 
that  bashfulness  rather  than  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the 
Countess  had  called  up  that  flush  into  his  face.  Once  only 
Julie  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  the  stranger,  and  then  only 
because  she  was  in  a  manner  compelled  to  do  so,  for  her  hus- 
band called  upon  her  to  admire  the  action  of  the  thorough- 
bred. It  so  happened  that  their  glances  clashed ;  and  the  shy 
Englishman,  instead  of  riding  abreast  of  the  carriage,  fell 
behind  on  this,  and  followed  them  at  a  distance  of  a  few  paces. 

Yet  the  Countess  had  scarcely  given  him  a  glance ;  she  saw 
none  of  the  various  perfections,  human  and  equine,  com- 
mended to  her  notice,  and  fell  back  again  in  the  carriage 
with  a  slight  movement  of  the  eyelids  intended  to  express  her 
acquiescence  in  her  husband's  views.  The  Colonel  fell  asleep 
again,  and  both  husband  and  wife  reached  Tours  without 
another  word.  Not  one  of  those  enchanting  views  of  ever- 
changing  landscape  through  which  they  sped  had  drawn  so 
much  as  a  glance  from  Julie's  eyes. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  now  and  again  at  her  sleeping 
husband.  While  she  looked,  a  sudden  jolt  shook  something 
down  upon  her  knees.  It  was  her  father's  portrait,  a  miniature 
which  she  wore  suspended  about  her  neck  by  a  black  cord.  At 
the  sight  of  it,  the  tears,  till  then  kept  back,  overflowed  her 
eyes,  but  no  one,  save  perhaps  the  Englishman,  saw  them 


A  WOMAN    OF  THIRTY  21 

glitter  there  for  a  brief  moment  before  they  dried  upon  her 
pale  cheeks. 

Colonel  d'Aiglemont  was  on  his  way  to  the  South.  Marshal 
Soult  was  repelling  an  English  invasion  of  Beam;  and 
d'Aiglemont,  the  bearer  of  the  Emperor's  orders  to  the  Mar- 
shal, seized  the  opportunity  of  taking  his  wife  as  far  as  Tours 
to  leave  her  with  an  elderly  relative  of  his  own,  far  away 
from  the  dangers  threatening  Paris. 

Very  shortly  the  carriage  rolled  over  the  paved  road  of 
Tours,  over  the  bridge,  along  the  Grande-Rue,  and  stopped 
at  last  before  the  old  mansion  of  the  ci-devant  Marquise  de 
Listomere-Landon. 

The  Marquise  de  Listomere-Landon,  with  her  white  hair, 
pale  face,  and  shrewd  smile,  was  one  of  those  fine  old  ladies 
who  still  seem  to  wear  the  paniers  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  affects  caps  of  an  extinct  mode.  They  are  nearly  alway 
caressing  in  their  manners,  as  if  the  heyday  of  love  still 
lingered  on  for  these  septuagenarian  portraits  of  the  age  of 
Louis  Quinze,  with  the  faint  perfume  of  poudre  a  la  marechale 
always  clinging  about  them.  Bigoted  rather  than  pious,  and 
less  of  bigots  than  they  seem,  women  who  can  tell  a  story  well 
and  talk  still  better,  their  laughter  comes  more  readily  for  an 
old  memory  than  for  a  new  jest — the  present  intrudes  upon 
them. 

When  an  old  waiting-woman  announced  to  the  Marquise  de 
Listomere-Landon  (to  give  her  the  title  which  she  was  soon  to 
resume)  the  arrival  of  a  nephew  whom  she  had  not  seen  since 
the  outbreak  of  the  war  with  Spain,  the  old  lady  took  off  her 
spectacles  with  alacrity,  shut  the  Galerie  de  I'ancienne  Cour 
(her  favorite  work),  and  recovered  something  like  youthful 
activity,  hastening  out  upon  the  flight  of  steps  to  greet  the 
young  couple  there. 

Aunt  and  niece  exchanged  a  rapid  glance  of  survey. 

"Good-morning,  dear  aunt,"  cried  the  Colonel,  giving  the 
old  lady  a  hasty  embrace.  "I  am  bringing  a  young  lady  to 
put  under  your  wing.  I  have  come  to  put  my  treasure  in  your 
keeping.  My  Julie  is  neither  jealous  nor  a  coquette,  she  is 


22  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

as  good  as  an  angel.     I  hope  that  she  will  not  be  spoiled  here," 
he  added,  suddenly  interrupting  himself. 

"Scapegrace !"  returned  the  Marquise,  with  a  satirical 
glance  at  her  nephew. 

She  did  not  wait  for  her  niece  to  approach  her,  but  with  a 
certain  kindly  graciousness  went  forward  herself  to  kiss  Julie, 
who  stood  there  thoughtfully,  to  all  appearance  more  embar- 
rassed than  curious  concerning  her  new  relation. 

"So  we  are  to  make  each  other's  acquaintance,  are  we,  my 
love  ?"  the  Marquise  continued.  "Do  not  be  too  much  alarmed 
of  me.  I  always  try  not  to  be  an  old  woman  with  young 
people." 

On  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  the  Marquise  ordered 
breakfast  for  her  guests  in  provincial  fashion ;  but  the  Count 
checked  his  aunt's  flow  of  words  by  saying  soberly  that  he 
could  only  remain  in  the  house  while  the  horses  were  changing. 
On  this  the  three  hurried  into  the  drawing-room.  The 
Colonel  had  barely  time  to  tell  the  story  of  the  political  and 
military  events  which  had  compelled  him  to  ask  his  aunt 
for  a  shelter  for  his  young  wife.  While  he  talked  on  with- 
out interruption,  the  older  lady  looked  from  her  nephew  to  her 
niece,  and  took  the  sadness  in  Julie's  white  face  for  grief  at 
the  enforced  separation.  "Eh !  eh !"  her  looks  seemed  to  say, 
"these  young  things  are  in  love  with  each  other." 

The  crack  of  the  postilion's  whip  sounded  outside  in  the 
silent  old  grass-grown  courtyard.  Victor  embraced  his  aunt 
once  more,  and  rushed  out. 

"Good-bye,  dear,"  he  said,  kissing  his  wife,  who  had  fol- 
lowed him  down  to  the  carriage. 

"Oh!  Victor,  let  me  come  still  further  with  you,"  she 
pleaded  coaxingly.  "I  do  not  want  to  leave  you " 

"Can  you  seriously  mean  it  ?" 

"Very  well,"  said  Julie,  "since  you  wish  it."     The  carriage , 
disappeared. 

"So  you  are  very  fond  of  my  poor  Victor?"  said  the  Mar- 
quise, interrogating  her  niece  with  one  of  those  sagacious 
glances  which  dowagers  give  younger  women. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  23 

"Alas,  madame !"  said  Julie,  "must  one  not  love  a  man  well 
indeed  to  marry  him  ?" 

The  words  were  spoken  with  an  artless  accent  which  re- 
vealed either  a  pure  heart  or  inscrutable  depths.  How  could 
a  woman,  who  had  been  the  friend  of  Duclos  and  the  Marechal 
de  Richelieu,  refrain  from  trying  to  read  the  riddle  of  this 
marriage  ?  Aunt  and  niece  were  standing  on  the  steps,  gazing 
after  the  fast  vanishing  caleche.  The  look  in  the  young 
Countess'  eyes  did  not  mean  love  as  the  Marquise  understood 
it.  The  good  lady  was  a  Provengale,  and  her  passions  had 
been  lively. 

"So  you  were  captivated  by  my  good-for-nothing  of  a 
nephew  ?"  she  asked. 

Involuntarily  Julie  shuddered,  something  in  the  experi- 
enced coquette's  look  and  tone  seemed  to  say  that  Mme.  de 
Listomere-Landon's  knowledge  of  her  husband's  character 
went  perhaps  deeper  than  his  wife's.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  in 
dismay,  took  refuge  in  this  transparent  dissimulation,  ready 
to  her  hand,  the  first  resource  of  an  artless  unhappiness.  Mme. 
de  Listomere  appeared  to  be  satisfied  with  Julie's  answers ;  but 
in  her  secret  heart  she  rejoiced  to  think  that  here  was  a  love 
affair  on  hand  to  enliven  her  solitude,  for  that  her  niece  had 
some  amusing  flirtation  on  foot  she  was  fully  convinced. 

In  the  great  drawing-room,  hung  with  tapestry  framed  in 
strips  of  gilding,  young  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  sat  before  a  blazing 
fire,  behind  a  Chinese  screen  placed  to  shut  out  the  cold 
draughts  from  the  windows,  and  her  heavy  mood  scarcely 
lightened.  Among  the  old  eighteenth-century  furniture, 
under  the  old  paneled  ceiling,  it  was  not  very  easy  to  be  gay. 
Yet  the  young  Parisienne  took  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  this  en- 
trance upon  a  life  of  complete  solitude  and  in  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  old  provincial  house.  She  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  the  aunt,  a  stranger,  to  whom  she  had  written  a 
bride's  letter  on  her  marriage,  and  then  sat  as  silent  as  if  she 
had  been  listening  to  an  opera.  Not  until  two  hours  had  been 
spent  in  an  atmosphere  of  quiet  befitting  la  Trappe,  did  she 
suddenly  awaken  to  a  sense  of  uncourteous  behavior,  anri 


24  A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY 

bethink  herself  of  the  short  answers  which  she  had  given  her 
aunt.  Mme.  de  Listomere,  with  the  gracious  tact  character- 
istic of  a  bygone  age,  had  respected  her  niece's  mood.  When 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  became  conscious  of  her  shortcomings,  the 
dowager  sat  knitting,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  had 
several  times  left  the  room  to  superintend  preparations  in  the 
Green  Chamber,  whither  the  Countess'  luggage  had  been  trans- 
ported ;  now,  however,  she  had  returned  to  her  great  armchair, 
and  stole  a  glance  from  time  to  time  at  this  young  relative. 
Julie  felt  ashamed  of  giving  way  to  irresistible  broodings, 
and  tried  to  earn  her  pardon  by  laughing  at  herself. 

"My  dear  child,  we  know  the  sorrows  of  widowhood,"  re- 
turned her  aunt.  But  only  the  eyes  of  forty  years  could  have 
distinguished  the  irony  hovering  about  the  old  lady's  mouth. 

Next  morning  the  Countess  improved.  She  talked.  Mme. 
de  Listomere  no  longer  Despaired  of  fathoming  the  new-made 
wife,  whom  yesterday  she  had  set  down  as  a  dull,  unsociable 
creature,  and  discoursed  on  the  delights  of  the  country,  of 
dances,  of  houses  where  they  could  visit.  All  that  day  the 
Marquise's  questions  were  so  many  snares ;  it  was  the  old  habit 
of  the  old  Court,  she  could  not  help  setting  traps  to  discover 
her  niece's  character.  For  several  days  Julie,  plied  with 
temptations,  steadfastly  declined  to  seek  amusement  abroad; 
and  much  as  the  old  lady's  pride  longed  to  exhibit  her  pretty 
niece,  she  was  fain  to  renounce  all  hope  of  taking  her  into 
society,  for  the  young  Countess  was  still  in  mourning  for  her 
father,  and  found  in  her  i,~  is  and  her  mourning  dress  a  pre- 
text for  her  sadness  and  desire  for  seclusion. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  the  dowager  admired  Julie's  angelic 
sweetness  of  disposition,  her  diffident  charm,  her  indulgent 
temper,  and  thenceforward  began  to  take  a  prodigious  inter- 
est in  the  mysterious  sadness  gnawing  at  this  young  heart. 
The  Countess  was  one  of  those  women  who  seem  born  to  be 
loved  and  to  bring  happiness  with  them.  Mme.  de  Listomere 
found  her  niece's  society  grown  so  sweet  and  precious,  that 
she  doted  upon  Julie,  and  could  no  longer  think  of  parting 
with  her.  A  month  sufficed  to  establish  an  eternal  friend 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  25 

ship  between  the  two  ladies.  The  dowager  noticed,  not 
without  surprise,  the  changes  that  took  place  in  Mine.  d'Aiglo- 
mont;  gradually  her  bright  color  died  away,  and  her  face 
became  dead  white.  Yet,  Julie's  spirits  rose  as  the  bloom 
faded  from  her  cheeks.  Sometimes  the  dowager's  sallies  pro- 
voked outbursts  of  merriment  or  peals  of  laughter,  promptly 
repressed,  however,  by  some  clamorous  thought. 

Mme.  de  Listomere  had  guessed  by  this  time  that  it  was 
neither  Victor's  absence  nor  a  father's  death  which  threw 
a  shadow  over  her  niece's  life;  but  her  mind  was  so  full  of 
dark  suspicions,  that  she  found  it  difficult  to  lay  a  finger  upon 
the  real  cause  of  the  mischief.  Possibly  truth  is  only  dis- 
coverable by  chance.  A  day  came,  however,  at  length  when 
Julie  flashed  out  before  her  aunt's  astonished  eyes  into  a  com- 
plete forgetfulness  of  her  marriage;  she  recovered  the  wild 
spirits  of  careless  girlhood.  Mme.  de  Listomere  then  and 
there  made  up  her  mind  to  fathom  the  depths  of  this  soul, 
for  its  exceeding  simplicity  was  as  inscrutable  as  dissimula- 
tion. 

Night  was  falling.  The  two  ladies  were  sitting  by  the 
window  which  looked  out  upon  the  street,  and  Julie  was 
looking  thoughtful  again,  when  some  one  went  by  on  horse- 
back. 

"There  goes  onp  of  your  victims,"  said  the  Marquise. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  up ;  dismay  and  surprise  blended 
in  her  face. 

"He  is  a  young  Englishman,  the  Honorable  Arthur  Or- 
mond,  Lord  Grenville's  eldest  son.  His  history  is  interest- 
ing. His  physician  sent  him  to  Montpellier  in  1802 ;  it  was 
hoped  that  in  that  climate  he  might  recover  from  the  lung 
complaint  which  was  gaining  ground.  He  was  detained,  like 
all  his  fellow-countrymen,  by  Bonaparte  when  war  broke  out.. 
That  monster  cannot  live  without  fighting.  The  young 
Englishman,  by  way  of  amusing  himself,  took  to  study- 
ing his  own  complaint,  which  was  believed  to  be  incur- 
able. By  degrees  he  acquired  a  liking  for  anatomy  and 
physic,  and  took  quite  a  craze  for  that  kind  of  thing,  a  most 


~28  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

extraordinary  taste  in  a  man  of  quality,  though  the  Eegent 
certainly  amused  himself  with  chemistry!  In  short,  Mon- 
sieur Arthur  made  astonishing  progress  in  his  studies;  his 
health  did  the  same  under  the  faculty  of  Montpellier;  he 
consoled  his  captivity,  and  at  the  same  time  his  cure  was 
thoroughly  completed.  They  say  that  he  spent  two  whole 
years  in  a  cowshed,  living  on  cresses  and  the  milk  of  a  cow 
brought  from  Switzerland,  breathing  as  seldom  as  he  could, 
and  never  speaking  a  word.  Since  he  came  to  Tours  he  has 
lived  quite  alone;  he  is  as  proud  as  a  peacock;  but  you  have 
certainly  made  a  conquest  of  him,  for  probably  it  is  not  on 
my  account  that  he  has  ridden  under  the  window  twice  every 
day  since  you  have  been  here. — He  has  certainly  fallen  in 
love  with  you." 

That  last  phrase  roused  the  Countess  like  magic.  Her  in- 
voluntary start  and  smile  took  the  Marquise  by  surprise.  So 
far  from  showing  a  sign  of  the  instinctive  satisfaction  felt  by 
the  most  strait-laced  of  women  when  she  learns  that  she  has 
destroyed  the  peace  of  mind  of  some  male  victim,  there  was  a 
hard,  haggard  expression  in  Julie's  face — a  look  of  repulsion 
amounting  almost  to  loathing. 

A  woman  who  loves  will  put  the  whole  world  under  the 
ban  of  Love's  empire  for  the  sake  of  the  one  whom  she  loves ; 
but  such  a  woman  can  laugh  and  jest;  and  Julie  at  that 
moment  looked  as  if  the  memory  of  some  recently  escaped 
peril  was  too  sharp  and  fresh  not  to  bring  with  it  a  quick 
sensation  of  pain.  Her  aunt,  by  this  time  convinced  that 
Julie  did  not  love  her  nephew,  was  stupefied  by  the  discovery 
that  she  loved  nobody  else.  She  shuddered  lest  a  further 
discovery  should  show  her  Julie's  heart  disenchanted,  lest  the 
experience  of  a  day,  or  perhaps  of  a  night,  should  have  re- 
vealed to  a  young  wife  the  full  extent  of  Victor's  emptiness. 

"If  she  has  found  him  out,  there  is  an  end  of  it,"  thought 
the  dowager.  "My  nephew  will  soon  be  made  to  feel  the  in- 
conveniences of  wedded  life." 

The  Marquise  now  proposed  to  convert  Julie  to  the  mon- 
archical doctrines  of  the  times  of  Louis  Quinze;  but  a  few 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  27 

hours  later  she  discovered,  or,  more  properly  speaking, 
guessed,  the  not  uncommon  state  of  affairs,  and  the  real  cause 
of  her  niece's  low  spirits. 

Julie  turned  thoughtful  on  a  sudden,  and  went  to  her  room 
earlier  than  usual.  When  her  maid  left  her  for  the  night, 
she  still  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  yellow  velvet  depths  of  a  great 
chair,  an  old-world  piece  of  furniture  as  well  suited  for  sor- 
row as  for  happy  people.  Tears  flowed,  followed  by  sighs 
and  meditation.  After  a  while  she  drew  a  little  table  to  her, 
sought  writing  materials,  and  began  to  write.  The  hours 
went  by  swiftly.  Julie's  confidences  made  to  the  sheet  of 
paper  seemed  to  cost  her  dear ;  every  sentence  set  her  dream- 
ing, and  at  last  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  The  clocks 
were  striking  t\vo.  Her  head,  grown  heavy  as  a  dying  wo- 
man's, was  bowed  over  her  breast.  When  she  raised  it,  her 
aunt  appeared  before  her  as  suddenly  as  if  she  had  stepped 
out  of  the  background  of  tapestry  upon  the  walls. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  you,  child?"  asked  the 
Marquise.  "Why  are  you  sitting  up  so  late?  And  why,  in 
the  first  place,  are  you  crying  alone,  at  your  age?" 

Without  further  ceremony  she  sat  down  beside  her  niece, 
her  eyes  the  while  devouring  the  unfinished  letter. 

"Were  you  writing  to  your  husband?" 

"Do  I  know  where  he  is?"  returned  the  Countess. 

Her  aunt  thereupon  took  up  the  sheet  and  proceeded  to 
read  it.  She  had  brought  her  spectacles;  the  deed  was  pre- 
meditated. The  innocent  writer  of  the  letter  allowed  her  to 
take  it  without  the  slightest  remark.  It  was  neither  lack  of 
dignity  nor  consciousness  of  secret  guilt  which  left  her  thus 
without  energy.  Her  aunt  had  come  in  upon  her  at  a  crisis. 
She  was  helpless;  right  or  wrong,  reticence  and  confidence, 
like  all  things  else,  were  matters  of  indifference.  Like  some 
young  maid  who  has  heaped  scorn  upon  her  lover,  and  feels 
so  lonely  and  sad  when  evening  comes,  that  she  longs  for  him 
to  come  back  or  for  a  heart  to  which  she  can  pour  out  her 
sorrow,  Julie  allowed  her  aunt  to  violate  the  seal  which 
honor  places  upon  an  open  letter,  and  sat  musing  while  the 
Marquise  read  on: — 


28  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

"MY  DEAR  LOUISA, — Why  do  you  ask  so  often  for  the  ful- 
filment of  as  rash  a  promise  as  two  young  and  inexperienced 
girls  could  make?  You  say  that  you  often  ask  yourself  why 
I  have  given  no  answer  to  your  questions  for  these  six  months. 
If  my  silence  told  you  nothing,  perhaps  you  will  understand 
the  reasons  for  it  to-day,  as  you  read  the  secrets  which  I  am 
about  to  betray.  I  should  have  buried  them  for  ever  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart  if  you  had  not  announced  your  own  ap- 
proaching marriage.  You  are  about  to  be  married,  Louisa. 
The  thought  makes  me  shiver.  Poor  little  one !  marry,  yes,  in 
a  few  months'  time  one  of  the  keenest  pangs  of  regret  will 
be  the  recollection  of  a  self  which  used  to  be,  of  the  two 
young  girls  who  sat  one  evening  under  one  of  the  tallest  oak- 
trees  on  the  hillside  at  ficouen,  and  looked  along  the  fair  val- 
ley at  our  feet  in  the  light  of  the  sunset,  which  caught  us  in 
its  glow.  We  sat  on  a  slab  of  rock  in  ecstasy,  which  sobered 
down  into  melancholy  of  the  gentlest.  You  were  the  first  to 
discover  that  the  far-off  sun  spoke  to  us  of  the  future.  How 
inquisitive  and  how  silly  we  were !  Do  you  remember  all  the 
absurd  things  we  said  and  did?  We  embraced  each  other; 
'like  lovers/  said  we.  We  solemnly  promised  that  the  first 
bride  should  faithfully  reveal  to  the  other  the  mysteries  of 
marriage,  the  joys  which  our  childish  minds  imagined  to  be 
so  delicious.  That  evening  will  complete  your  despair, 
Louisa.  In  those  days  you  were  young  and  beautiful  and 
careless,  if  not  radiantly  happy ;  a  few  days  of  marriage,  and 
you  will  be,  what  I  am  already — ugly,  wretched,  and  old. 
Need  I  tell  you  how  proud  I  was  and  how  vain  and  glad  to 
be  married  to  Colonel  Victor  d'Aiglemont?  And  besides, 
how  could  I  tell  you  now?  for  I  cannot  remember  that  old 
self.  A  few  moments  turned  my  girlhood  to  a  dream.  All 
through  the  memorable  day  which  consecrated  a  chain,  the 
extent  of  which  was  hidden  from  me,  my  behavior  was  riot 
free  from  reproach.  Once  and  again  my  father  tried  to  repress 
my  spirits ;  the  joy  which  I  showed  so  plainly  was  thought  un- 
befitting the  occasion,  my  talk  scarcely  innocent,  simply  be- 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  29 

cause  I  was  so  innocent.  I  played  endless  child's  tricks  with 
my  bridal  veil,  my  wreath,  my  gown.  Left  alone  that  night 
in  the  room  whither  I  had  been  conducted  in  state,  I  planned 
a  piece  of  mischief  to  tease  Victor.  While  I  awaited  his 
coming,  my  heart  beat  wildly,  as  it  used  to  do  when  I  was  a 
child  stealing  into  the  drawing-room  on  the  last  day  of  the  old 
year  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  New  Year's  gifts  piled  up  there 
in  heaps.  'When  my  husband  came  in  and  looked  for  me,  my 
smothered  laughter  ringing  out  from  beneath  the  lace  in 
which  I  had  shrouded  myself,  was  the  last  outburst  of  the 
delicious  merriment  which  brightened  our  games  in  child- 
hood .  .  ." 

When  the  dowager  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  and  after 
such  a  beginning  the  rest  must  have  been  sad  indeed,  she 
slowly  laid  her  spectacles  on  the  table,  put  the  letter  down 
beside  them,  and  looked  fixedly  at  her  niece.  Age  had  not 
dimmed  the  fire  in  those  green  eyes  as  yet. 

"My  little  girl,"  she  said,  "a  married  woman  cannot  write 
such  a  letter  as  this  to  a  young  unmarried  woman;  it  is 
scarcely  proper " 

"So  I  was  thinking,"  Julie  broke  in  upon  her  aunt.  "I 
felt  ashamed  of  myself  while  you  were  reading  it." 

"If  a  dish  at  table  is  not  to  our  taste,  there  is  no  occasion 
to  disgust  others  with  it,  child,"  the  old  lady  continued 
benignly,  "especially  when  marriage  has  seemed  to  us  all, 
from  Eve  downwards,  so  excellent  an  institution.  .  .  . 
You  have  no  mother?" 

The  Countess  trembled,  then  she  raised  her  face  meekly, 
and  said : 

"I  have  missed  my  mother  many  times  already  during  the 
past  year;  but  I  have  myself  to  blame,  I  would  not  listen 
to  my  father.  He  was  opposed  to  my  marriage;  he  dis- 
approved of  Victor  as  a  son-in-law/' 

She  looked  at  her  aunt.  The  old  face  was  lighted  up  with 
a  kindly  look,  and  a  thrill  of  joy  dried  Julie's  tears.  She 
held  out  her  young,  soft  hand  to  the  old  Marquise,  who  seemed 


30  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

to  ask  for  it,  and  the  understanding  between  the  two  women 
was  completed  by  the  close  grasp  of  their  fingers. 

"Poor  orphan  child !" 

The  words  came  like  a  final  flash  of  enlightenment  to 
Julie.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  her  father's  prophetic 
voice  again. 

"Your  hands  are  burning!  Are  they  always  like  this?" 
asked  the  Marquise. 

"The  fever  only  left  me  seven  or  eight  days  ago." 

"You  had  a  fever  upon  you,  and  said  nothing  about  it  to 
me!" 

"I  have  had  it  for  a  year,"  said  Julie,  with  a  kind  of.  timid 
anxiety. 

"My  good  little  angel,  then  your  married  life  hitherto  has 
been  one  long  time  of  suffering  ?" 

Julie  did  not  venture  to  reply,  but  an  affirmative  sign  re- 
vealed the  whole  truth. 

"Then  you  are  unhappy  ?" 

"Oh !  no,  no,  aunt.  Victor  loves  me,  he  almost  idolizes 
me,  and  I  adore  him,  he  is  so  kind." 

"Yes,  you  love  him ;  but  you  avoid  him,  do  you  not  ?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  sometimes.  .  .  .  He  seeks  me  too 
often." 

"And  often  when  you  are  alone  you  are  troubled  with  the 
fear  that  he  may  suddenly  break  in  upon  your  solitude  ?" 

"Alas !  yes,  aunt.  But,  indeed,  I  love  him,  I  do  assure 
you." 

"Do  you  not,  in  your  own  thoughts,  blame  yourself  be- 
cause you  find  it  impossible  to  share  his  pleasures?  Do  you 
never  think  at  times  that  marriage  is  a  heavier  yoke  than  an 
illicit  passion  could  be?" 

"Oh !  that  is  just  it,"  she  wept.  "It  is  all  a  riddle  to  me, 
and  can  you  guess  it  all  ?  My  faculties  are  benumbed,  I  have 
no  ideas,  I  can  scarcely  see  at  all.  I  am  weighed  down  by 
vague  dread,  which  freezes  me  till  I  cannot  feel,  and  keeps 
me  in  continual  torpor.  I  have  no  voice  with  which  to  pity 
myself,  no  words  to  express  my  trouble.  I  suffer,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  suffer  when  Victor  is  happy  at  my  cost," 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  31 

"Babyish  nonsense,  and  rubbish,  all  of  it  I"  exclaimed  the 
aunt,  and  a  gay  smile,  an  after-glow  of  the  joys  of  her  own 
youth,  suddenly  lighted  up  her  withered  face. 

"And  do  you  too  laugh!"  the  younger  woman  cried  de- 
spairingly. 

"It  was  just  my  own  case,"  the  Marquise  returned 
promptly.  "And  now  that  Victor  has  left  you,  you  have 
become  a  girl  again,  recovering  a  tranquillity  without  pleasure 
and  without  pain,  have  you  not  ?" 

Julie  opened  wide  eyes  of  bewilderment. 

"In  fact,  my  angel,  you  adore  Victor,  do  you  not?  But 
still  you  would  rather  be  a  sister  to  him  than  a  wife,  and,  in 
short,  your  marriage  is  emphatically  not  a  success  ?" 

"Well — no,  aunt.    But  why  do  you  smile  ?" 

"Oh!  you  are  right,  poor  child!  There  is  nothing  very 
amusing  in  all  this.  Your  future  would  be  big  with  more 
than  one  mishap  if  I  had  not  taken  you  under  my  pro- 
tection, if  my  old  experience  of  life  had  not  guessed  the  very 
innocent  cause  of  your  troubles.  My  nephew  did  not  de- 
serve his  good  fortune,  the  blockhead !  In  the  reign  of  our 
well-beloved  Louis  Quinze,  a  young  wife  in  your  position 
would  very  soon  have  punished  her  husband  for  behaving  like 
a  ruffian.  The  selfish  creature !  The  men  who  serve  under 
this  Imperial  tyrant  are  all  of  them  ignorant  boors.  They 
take  brutality  for  gallantry;  they  know  no  more  of  women 
than  they  know  of  love ;  and  imagine  that  because  they  go  out 
to  face  death  on  the  morrow,  they  may  dispense  to-day  with 
all  consideration  and  attentions  for  us.  The  time  was  when 
a  man  could  love  and  die  too  at  the  proper  time.  My  niece, 
I  will  form  you.  I  will  put  an  end  to  this  unhappy  di- 
vergence between  you,  a  natural  thing  enough,  but  it  would 
end  in  mutual  hatred  and  desire  for  a  divorce,  always  sup- 
posing that  you  did  not  die  on  the  way  to  despair." 

Julie's  amazement  equaled  her  surprise  as  she  listened 
to  her  aunt.  She  was  surprised  by  her  language,  dimly 
divining  rather  than  appreciating  the  wisdom  of  the  words 
she  heard,  and  very  much  dismayed  to  find  what  this  relative, 


32  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

out  of  a  great  experience,  passed  judgment  upon  Victor  as 
her  father  had  done,  though  in  somewhat  milder  terms. 
Perhaps  some  quick  prevision  of  the  future  crossed  her  mind ; 
doubtless,  at  any  rate,  she  felt  the  heavy  weight  of  the  burden 
which  must  inevitably  overwhelm  her,  for  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  sprang  to  the  old  lady's  arms.  "Be  my  mother," 
she  sobbed. 

The  aunt  shed  no  tears.  The  Kevolution  had  left  old 
ladies  of  the  Monarchy  but  few  tears  to  shed.  Love,  in  by- 
gone days,  and  the  Terror  at  a  later  time,  had  familiarized 
them  with  extremes  of  joy  and  anguish  in  such  a  sort  that, 
amid  the  perils  of  life,  they  preserved  their  dignity  and  cool- 
ness, a  capacity  for  sincere  but  undemonstrative  affection 
which  never  disturbed  their  well-bred  self-possession,  and  a 
dignity  of  demeanor  which  a  younger  generation  has  done 
very  ill  to  discard. 

The  dowager  took  Julie  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead  with  a  tenderness  and  pity  more  often  found  in 
women's  ways  and  manner  than  in  their  hearts.  Then  she 
coaxed  her  niece  with  kind,  soothing  words,  assured  her  of  a 
happy  future,  lulled  her  with  promises  of  love,  and  put  her  to 
bed  as  if  she  had  been  not  a  niece,  but  a  daughter,  a  much- 
loved  daughter  whose  hopes  and  cares  she  had  made  her  own. 
Perhaps  the  old  Marquise  had  found  her  own  youth  and  in- 
experience and  beauty  again  in  this  nephew's  wife.  And  the 
Countess  fell  asleep,  happy  to  have  found  a  friend,  nay,  a 
mother,  to  whom  she  could  tell  everything  freely. 

Next  morning,  when  the  two  women  kissed  each  other  with 
heartfelt  kindness,  and  that  look  of  intelligence  which  marks 
a  real  advance  in  friendship,  a  closer  intimacy  between  two 
souls,  they  heard  the  sound  of  horsehoofs,  and,  turning  both 
together,  saw  the  young  Englishman  ride  slowly  past  the 
window,  after  his  wont.  Apparently  he  had  made  a  certain 
study  of  the  life  led  by  the  two  lonely  women,  for  he  never 
failed  to  ride  by  as  they  sat  at  breakfast,  and  again  at  dinner. 
His  horse  slackened  pace  of  its  own  accord,  and  for  the  space 
df  time  required  to  pass  the  two  windows  in  the  room,  its 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  38 

rider  turned  a  melancholy  look  upon  the  Countess,  who 
seldom  deigned  to  take  the  slightest  notice  of  him.  Not  so 
the  Marquise.  Minds  not  necessarily  little  find  it  difficult 
to  resist  the  little  curiosity  which  fastens  upon  the  most 
trifling  event  that  enlivens  provincial  life ;  and  the  English- 
man's mute  way  of  expressing  his  timid,  earnest  love  tickled 
Mme.  de  Listomere.  For  her  the  periodically  recurrent 
glance  became  a  part  of  the  day's  routine,  hailed  daily  with 
new  jests.  As  the  two  women  sat  down  to  table,  both  of 
them  looked  out  at  the  same  moment.  This  time  Julie's  eyes 
met  Arthur's  with  such  a  precision  of  sympathy  that  the  color 
rose  to  her  face.  The  stranger  immediately  urged  his  horse 
into  a  gallop  and  went. 

"What  is  to  be  done,  madame?"  asked  Julie.  "People 
see  this  Englishman  go  past  the  house,  and  they  will  take  it 
for  granted  that  I 

"Yes,"  interrupted  her  aunt. 

"Well,  then,  could  I  not  tell  him  to  discontinue  his 
promenades  ?" 

"Would  not  that  be  a  way  of  telling  him  that  he  was 
dangerous  ?  You  might  put  that  notion  into  his  head.  And 
besides,  can  you  prevent  a  man  from  coming  and  going  as 
he  pleases?  Our  meals  shall  be  served  in  another  room  to- 
morrow; and  when  this  young  gentleman  sees  us  no  longer, 
there  will  be  an  end  of  making  love  to  you  through  the 
window.  There,  dear  child,  that  is  how  a  woman  of  tke 
world  does." 

But  the  measure  of  Julie's  misfortune  was  to  be  filled  up. 
The  two  women  had  scarcely  risen  from  table  when  Victors 
man  arrived  in  hot  haste  from  Bourges  with  a  letter  for  the 
Countess  from  her  husband.  The  servant  had  ridden  by  un- 
frequented ways. 

Victor  sent  his  wife  news  of  the  downfall  of  the  Empire 
and  the  capitulation  of  Paris.  He  himself  had  gone  over  to 
the  Bourbons,  and  all  France  was  welcoming  them  oack  with 
transports  of  enthusiasm.  He  could  not  go  so  far  as  Tours, 
but  he  begged  her  to  come  at  once  to  join  him  at  Orleans, 

VOL.  5—27 


34  A   WOMAN   OF   THIRTY 

where  he  hoped  to  be  in  readiness  with  passports  for  her.  His 
servant,  an  old  soldier,  would  be  her  escort  as  far  as  Orleans ; 
he  (Victor)  believed  that  the  road  was  still  open. 

"You  have  not  a  moment  to  lose,  madame,"  said  the  man. 
"The  Prussians,  Austrians,  and  English  are  about  to  effect 
a  junction  either  at  Blois  or  at  Orleans." 

A  few  hours  later,  Julie's  preparations  were  made,  and  she 
started  out  upon  her  journey  in  an  old  traveling  carriage  lent 
by  her  aunt. 

"Why  should  you  not  come  with  us  to  Paris?"  she  asked, 
as  she  put  her  arms  about  the  Marquise.  "Now  that  the 
Bourbons  have  come  back,  you  would  be " 

"Even  if  there  had  not  been  this  unhoped-for  return,  I 
should  still  have  gone  to  Paris,  my  poor  child,  for  my  advice 
is  only  too  necessary  to  both  you  and  Victor.  So  I  shall 
make  all  my  preparations  for  rejoining  you  there." 

Julie  set  out.  She  took  her  maid  with  her,  and  the  old 
soldier  galloped  beside  the  carriage  as  escort.  At  nightfall, 
as  they  changed  horses  for  the  last  stage  before  Blois,  Julie 
grew  uneasy.  All  the  way  from  Amboise  she  had  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  behind  them,  a  carriage  following  hers  had 
kept  at  the  same  distance.  She  stood  on  the  step  and  looked 
out  to  see  who  her  traveling  companions  might  be,  and  in  the 
moonlight  saw  Arthur  standing  three  paces  away,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  chaise  which  contained  her.  Again  their  eyes 
met.  The  Countess  hastily  flung  herself  back  in  her  seat, 
but  a  feeling  of  dread  set  her  pulses  throbbing.  It  seemed  to 
her,  as  to  most  innocent  and  inexperienced  young  wives,  that 
she  was  herself  to  blame  for  this  love  which  she  had  all  unwit- 
tingly inspired.  With  this  thought  came  an  instinctive  terror, 
perhaps  a  sense  of  her  own  helplessness  before  aggressive 
audacity.  One  of  a  man's  strongest  weapons  is  the  terrible 
power  of  compelling  a  woman  to  think  of  him  when  her 
naturally  lively  imagination  takes  alarm  or  offence  at  the 
thought  tV""t  she  is  followed. 

The  Countess  bethought  herself  of  her  aunt's  advice,  and 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  stir  from  her  place 


A  WOMAN    OF  THIRTY  35 

during  the  rest  of  the  journey;  hut  every  time  the  horses  were 
changed  she  heard  the  Englishman  pacing  round  the  two 
carriages,  and  again  upon  the  road  heard  the  importunate 
sound  of  the  wheels  of  his  caleche.  Julie  soon  began  to  think 
that,  when  once  reunited  to  her  husband,  Victor  would  know 
how  to  defend  her  against  this  singular  persecution. 

"Yet  suppose  that  in  spite  of  everything,  this  young  man 
does  not  love  me?"  This  was  the  thought  that  came  last  of 
all. 

No  sooner  did  she  reach  Orleans  than  the  Prussians  stopped 
the  chaise.  It  was  wheeled  into  an  inn-yard  and  put  under  a 
guard  of  soldiers.  Resistance  was  out  of  the  question.  The 
foreign  soldiers  made  the  three  travelers  understand  by  signs 
that  they  were  obeying  orders,  and  that  no  one  could  be 
allowed  to  leave  the  carriage.  For  about  two  hours  the 
Countess  sat  in  tears,  a  prisoner  surrounded  by  the  guard,  who 
smoked,  laughed,  and  occasionally  stared  at  her  with  insolent 
curiosity.  At  last,  however,  she  saw  her  captors  fall  away 
from  the  carriage  with  a  sort  of  respect,  and  heard  at  the 
same  time  the  sound  of  horses  entering  the  yard.  Another 
moment,  and  a  little  group  of  foreign  officers,  with  an 
Austrian  general  at  their  head,  gathered  about  the  door  of  the 
traveling  carriage. 

"Madame,"  said  the  General,  "pray  accept  our  apologies. 
A  mistake  has  been  made.  You  may  continue  your  journey 
without  fear ;  and  here  is  a  passport  which  will  spare  you  all 
further  annoyance  of  any  kind." 

Trembling  the  Countess  took  the  paper,  and  faltered  out 
some  vague  words  of  thanks.  She  saw  Arthur,  now  wearing 
an  English  uniform,  standing  beside  the  General,  and  could 
not  doubt  that  this  prompt  deliverance  was  due  to  him.  The 
young  Englishman  himself  looked  half  glad,  half  melancholy ; 
his  face  was  turned  away,  and  he  only  dared  to  steal  an  oc- 
casional glance  at  Julie's  face. 

Thanks  to  the  passport,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  reached  Paris 
without  further  misadventure,  and  there  she  found  her  hus- 
band. Victor  d'Aiglemont,  released  from  his  oath  of  allegiance 


36  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

to  the  Emperor,  had  met  with  a  most  flattering  reception  from 
the  Comte  d'Artois,  recently  appointed  Lieutenant-General  of 
the  kingdom  by  his  brother  Louis  XVIII.  D'Aiglemont  re- 
ceived a  commission  in  the  Life  Guards,  equivalent  to  the 
rank  of  general.  But  amid  the  rejoicings  over  the  return  of 
the  Bourbons,  fate  dealt  poor  Julie  a  terrible  blow.  The 
death  of  the  Marquise  de  Listomere-Landon  was  an  irrepa- 
rable loss.  The  old  lady  died  of  joy  and  of  an  accession  of 
gout  to  the  heart  when  the  Due  d'Angouleme  came  back  to 
Tours,  and  the  one  living  being  entitled  by  her  age  to  en- 
lighten Victor,  the  woman  who,  by  discreet  counsels,  might 
have  brought  about  perfect  unanimity  of  husband  and  wife, 
was  dead ;  and  Julie  felt  the  full  extent  of  her  loss.  Hence- 
forward she  must  stand  alone  between  herself  and  her  hus- 
band. But  she  was  young  and  timid;  there  could  be  no 
doubt  of  the  result,  or  that  from  the  first  she  would  elect  to 
bear  her  lot  in  silence.  The  very  perfection  of  her  character 
forbade  her  to  venture  to  swerve  from  her  duties,  or  to  at- 
tempt to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  her  sufferings,  for  to  put  an 
end  to  them  would  have  been  to  venture  on  delicate  ground, 
and  Julie's  girlish  modesty  shrank  from  the  thought. 

A  word  as  to  M.  d'Aigleniont's  destinies  under  the  Restora- 
tion. 

How  many  men  are  there  whose  utter  incapacity  is  a  secret 
kept  from  most  of  their  acquaintance.  For  such  as  these 
high  rank,  high  office,  illustrious  birth,  a  certain  veneer  of 
politeness,  and  considerable  reserve  of  manner,  or  the  prestige 
of  great  fortunes,  are  but  so  many  sentinels  to  turn  back 
critics  who  would  penetrate  to  the  presence  of  the  real  man. 
Such  men  are  like  kings,  in  that  their  real  figure,  character, 
and  life  can  never  be  known  nor  justly  appreciated,  because 
they  are  always  seen  from  too  near  or  too  far.  Factitious 
merit  has  a  way  of  asking  questions  and  saying  little;  and 
understands  the  art  of  putting  others  forward  to  save  the 
necessity  of  posing  before  them ;  then,  with  a  happy  knack  of 
its  own,  it  draws  and  attaches  others  by  the  thread  of  the 
ruling  passion  or  self-interest,  keeping  men  of  far  great n 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  37 

abilities  in  play  like  puppets,  and  despising  those  whom  it  has 
brought  down  to  its  own  level.  The  petty  fixed  idea  naturally 
prevails ;  it  has  the  advantage  of  persistence  over  the  plastic- 
ity of  great  thoughts. 

The  observer  who  should  seek  to  estimate  and  appraise  the 
negative  values  of  these  empty  heads  needs  subtlety  rather 
than  superior  wit  for  the  task;  patience  is  a  more  necessary 
part  of  his  judicial  outfit  than  great  mental  grasp,  cunning 
and  tact  rather  than  any  elevation  or  greatness  of  ideas.  Yet 
skilfully  as  such  usurpers  can  cover  and  defend  their  weak 
points,  it  is  difficult  to  delude  wife  and  mother  and  children 
and  the  house-friend  of  the  family;  fortunately  for  them, 
however,  these  persons  almost  always  keep  a  secret  which  in 
a  manner  touches  the  honor  of  all,  and  not  unfrequently  go  so 
far  as  to  help  to  foist  the  imposture  upon  the  public.  And 
if,  thanks  to  such  domestic  conspiracy,  many  a  noodle  passes 
current  for  a  man  of  ability,  on  the  other  hand  many  another 
who  has  real  ability  is  taken  for  a  noodle  to  redress  the  bal- 
ance, and  the  total  average  of  this  kind  of  false  coin  in  circu- 
lation in  the  state  is  a  pretty  constant  quantity. 

Bethink  yourself  now  of  the  part  to  be  played  by  a  clever 
woman  quick  to  think  and  feel,  mated  with  a  husband  of  this 
kind,  and  can  you  not  see  a  vision  of  lives  full  of  sorrow  and 
self-sacrifice?  Nothing  upon  earth  can  repay  such  hearts 
so  full  of  love  and  tender  tact.  Put  a  strong-willed  woman 
in  this  wretched  situation,  and  she  will  force  a  way  out  of  it 
for  herself  by  a  crime,  like  Catherine  II.,  whom  men  never- 
theless style  "the  Great."  But  these  women  are  not  all  seated 
upon  thrones,  they  are  for  the  most  part  doomed  to  domestic 
unhappiness  none  the  less  terrible  because  obscure. 

Those  who  seek  consolation  in  this  present  world  for  their 
woes  often  effect  nothing  but  a  change  of  ills  if  they  remain 
faithful  to  their  duties;  or  they  commit  a  sin  if  they  break 
the  laws  for  their  pleasure.  All  these  reflections  are  ap- 
plicable to  Julie's  domestic  life. 

Before  the  fall  of  Napoleon  nobody  was  jealous  of  d'Aigle- 
mont.  He  was  one  colonel  among  many,  an  efficient  orderly 


38  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

staff-officer,  as  good  a  man  as  you  could  find  for  a  dangerous 
mission,  as  unfit  as  well  could  be  for  an  important  command. 
D'Aiglemont  was  looked  upon  as  a  dashing  soldier  such  as 
the  Emperor  liked,  the  kind  of  man  whom  his  mess  usually 
calls  "a  good  fellow."  The  Kestoration  gave  him  back  his 
title  of  Marquis,  and  did  not  find  him  ungrateful ;  he  followed 
the  Bourbons  into  exile  at  Ghent,  a  piece  of  logical  loyalty 
which  falsified  the  horoscope  drawn  for  him  by  his  late  father- 
in-law,  who  predicted  that  Victor  would  remain  a  colonel  all 
his  life.  After  the  Hundred  Days  he  received  the  appoint- 
ment of  Lieutenant-General,  and  for  the  second  time  became 
a  marquis ;  but  it  was  M.  d' Aiglemont's  ambition  to  be  a  peer 
of  France.  He  adopted,  therefore,  the  maxims  and  the 
politics  of  the  Conservateur,  cloaked  himself  in  dissimula- 
tion which  hid  nothing  (there  being  nothing  to  hide),  cul- 
tivated grayity  of  countenance  and  the  art  of  asking  questions 
and  saying  little,  and  was  taken  for  a  man  of  profound 
wisdom.  Nothing  drew  him  from  his  intrenchments 
behind  the  forms  of  politeness;  he  laid  in  a  provision  of 
formulas,  and  made  lavish  use  of  his  stock  of  the  catch-words 
coined  at  need  in  Paris  to  give  fools  the  small  change  for  the 
ore  of  great  ideas  and  events.  Among  men  of  the  world  he 
was  reputed  a  man  of  taste  and  discernment ;  and  as  a  bigoted 
upholder  of  aristocratic  opinions  he  was  held  up  for  a  noble 
character.  If  by  chance  he  slipped  now  and  again  into  his 
old  light-heartedness  or  levity,  others  were  ready  to  discover 
an  undercurrent  of  diplomatic  intention  beneath  his  inanity 
and  silliness.  "Oh !  he  only  says  exactly  as  much  as  he  means 
to  say,"  thought  these  excellent  people. 

So  d' Aiglemont's  defects  and  good  qualities  stood  him  alike 
in  good  stead.  He  did  nothing  to  forfeit  a  high  military 
reputation  gained  by  his  dashing  courage,  forhehadneverbeen 
a  commander-in-chief.  Great  thoughts  surely  were  engraven 
upon  that  manly  aristocratic  countenance,  which  imposed  upon 
every  one  but  his  own  wife.  And  when  everybody  else  be- 
lieved in  the  Marquis  d'Aiglemont's  imaginary  talents,  the 
Marquis  persuaded  himself  before  he  had  done  that  he  was 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  3£ 

one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  at  Court,  where,  thanks  to  his 
purely  external  qualifications,  he  was  in  favor  and  taken  at 
his  own  valuation. 

At  home,  however,  M.  d'Aiglemont  was  modest.  In- 
stinctively he  felt  that  his  wife,  young  though  she  was,  was  his 
superior;  and  out  of  this  involuntary  respect  there  grew  an 
occult  power  which  the  Marquise  was  obliged  to  wield  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts  to  shake  off  the  burden.  She  became  her 
husband's  adviser,  the  director  of  his  actions  and  his  fortunes. 
It  was  an  unnatural  position;  she  felt  it  as  something  of  a 
humiliation,  a  source  of  pain  to  be  buried  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart.  From  the  first  her  delicately  feminine  instinct  told 
her  that  it  is  a  far  better  thing  to  obey  a  man  of  talent  than 
to  lead  a  fool;  and  that  a  young  wife  compelled  to  act  and 
think  like  a  man  is  neither  man  nor  woman,  but  a  being  who 
lays  aside  all  the  charms  of  her  womanhood  along  with  its 
misfortunes,  yet  acquires  none  of  the  privileges  which  our 
laws  give  to  the  stronger  sex.  Beneath  the  surface  her  life 
was  a  bitter  mockery.  Was  she  not  compelled  to  protect  her 
protector,  to  worship  a  hollow  idol,  a  poor  creature  who  flung 
her  the  love  of  a  selfish  husband  as  the  wages  of  her  continual 
self-sacrifice;  who  saw  nothing  in  her  but  the  woman;  and 
who  either  did  not  think  it  worth  while,  or  (wrong  quite 
as  deep)  did  not  think  at  all  of  troubling  himself  about  her 
pleasures,  of  inquiring  into  the  cause  of  her  low  spirits  and 
dwindling  health?  And  the  Marquis,  like  most  men  who 
chafe  under  a  wife's  superiority,  saved  his  self-love  by  argu- 
ing from  Julie's  physical  feebleness  a  corresponding  lack  of 
mental  power,  for  which  he  was  pleased  to  pity  her;  and  he 
would  cry  out  upon  fate  which  had  given  him  a  sickly  girl 
for  a  wife.  The  executioner  posed,  in  fact,  as  the  victim. 

All  the  burdens  of  this  dreary  lot  fell  upon  the  Marquise, 
who  still  must  smile  upon  her  foolish  lord,  and  deck  a  house 
of  mourning  with  flowers,  and  make  a  parade  of  happiness 
in  a  countenance  wan  with  secret  torture.  And  with  this 
sense  of  responsibility  for  the  honor  of  both,  with  the  mag- 
nificent immolation  of  self,  the  young  Marquise  unconsciously 


40  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

acquired  a  wifely  dignity,  a  consciousness  of  virtue  which 
became  her  safeguard  amid  many  dangers. 

Perhaps,  if  her  heart  were  sounded  to  the  very  depths,  this 
intimate  closely  hidden  wretchedness,  following  upon  her  un- 
thinking girlish  first  love,  had  roused  in  her  an  abhorrence  of 
passion;  possibly  she  had  no  conception  of  its  rapture,  nor  of 
forbidden  but  frenzied  bliss  for  which  some  women  will  re- 
nounce all  the  laws  of  prudence  and  the  principles  of  conduct 
upon  which  society  is  based.  She  put  from  her  like  a  dream 
the  thought  of  bliss  and  tender  harmony  of  love  promised  by 
Mme.  de  Listomere-Lan don's  mature  experience,  and  waited 
resignedly  for  the  end  of  her  troubles  with  a  hope  that  she 
might  die  young. 

Her  health  had  declined  daily  since  her  return  from  Tou- 
raine ;  her  life  seemed  to  be  measured  to  her  in  suffering ;  yet 
her  ill-health  was  graceful,  her  malady  seemed  little  more 
than  languor,  and  might  well  be  taken  by  careless  eyes  for  a 
fine  lady's  whim  of  invalidism. 

Her  doctors  had  condemned  her  to  keep  to  the  sofa,  and 
there  among  her  flowers  lay  the  Marquise,  fading  as  they 
faded.  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  walk,  nor  to  bear  the 
open  air,  and  only  went  out  in  a  closed  carriage.  Yet  with 
all  the  marvels  of  modern  luxury  and  invention  about 
her,  she  looked  more  like  an  indolent  queen  than  an  in- 
valid. A  few  of  her  friends,  half  in  love  perhaps  with 
her  sad  plight  and  her  fragile  look,  sure  of  finding  her 
at  home,  and  speculating  no  doubt  upon  her  future 
restoration  to  health,  would  come  to  bring  her  the  news 
of  the  day,  and  kept  her  informed  of  the  thousand  and 
one  small  events  which  fill  life  in  Paris  with  variety.  Her 
melancholy,  deep  and  real  though  it  was,  was  still  the  melan 
choly  of  a  woman  rich  in  many  ways.  The  Marquise  d'Aigle- 
mont  was  like  a  flower,  with  a  dark  insect  gnawing  at  its 
root. 

Occasionally  she  went  into  society,  not  to  please  herself, 
but  in  obedience  to  the  exigencies  of  the  position  which  her 
husband  aspired  to  take.  In  society  her  beautiful  voice  and 


41 

the  perfection  of  her  singing  could  always  gain  the  social 
success  so  gratifying  to  a  young  woman;  but  what  was  social 
success  to  her,  who  drew  nothing  from  it  for  her  heart  or  her 
hopes?  Her  husband  did  not  care  for  music.  And,  more- 
over, she  seldom  felt  at  her  ease  in  salons,  where  her  beauty 
attracted  homage  not  wholly  disinterested.  Her  position 
excited  a  sort  of  cruel  compassion,  a  morbid  curiosity.  She 
was  suffering  from  an  inflammatory  complaint  not  infre- 
quently fatal,  for  which  our  nosology  as  yet  has  found  no 
name,  a  complaint  spoken  of  among  women  in  confidential 
whispers.  In  spite  of  the  silence  in  which  her  life  was  spent, 
the  cause  of  her  ill-health  was  no  secret.  She  was  still  but  a 
girl  in  spite  of  her  marriage;  the  slightest  glance  threw  her 
into  confusion.  In  her  endeavor  not  to  blush,  she  was  always 
laughing,  always  apparently  in  high  spirits ;  she  would  never 
admit  that  she  was  not  perfectly  well,  and  anticipated  ques- 
tions as  to  her  health  by  shame-stricken  subterfuges. 

In  1817,  however,  an  event  took  place  which  did  much  to 
alleviate  Julie's  hitherto  deplorable  existence.  A  daughter 
was  born  to  her,  and  she  determined  to  nurse  her  child  her- 
self. For  two  years  motherhood,  its  all-absorbing  multiplicity 
of  cares  and  anxious  joys,  made  life  less  hard  for  her.  She  and 
her  husband  lived  necessarily  apart.  Her  physicians  pre- 
dicted improved  health,  but  the  Marquise  herself  put  no 
faith  in  these  auguries  based  on  theory.  Perhaps,  like  many 
a  one  for  whom  life  has  lost  its  sweetness,  she  looked  forward 
to  death  as  a  happy  termination  of  the  drama. 

But  with  the  beginning  of  the  year  1819  life  grew  harder 
than  ever.  Even  while  she  congratulated  herself  upon  the 
negative  happiness  which  she  had  contrived  to  win,  she  caught 
a  terrifying  glimpse  of  yawning  depths  below  it.  She  had 
passed  by  degrees  out  of  her  husband's  life.  Her  fine 
tact  and  her  prudence  told  her  that  misfortune  must  come, 
and  that  not  singly,  of  this  cooling  of  an  affection  already 
lukewarm  and  wholly  selfish.  Sure  though  she  was  of  her 
ascendency  over  Victor,  and  certain  as  she  felt  of  his  unalter- 
able esteem,  she  dreaded  the  influence  of  unbridled  passions 
upon  a  head  so  empty,  so  full  of  rash  self-conceit. 


42  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

Julie's  friends  often  found  her  absorbed  in  prolonged  mus- 
ings; the  less  clairvoyant  among  them  would  jestingly  ask 
her  what  she  was  thinking  about,  as  if  a  young  wife  would 
think  of  nothing  but  frivolity,  as  if  there  were  not  almost 
always  a  depth  of  seriousness  in  a  mother's  thoughts. 
TJnhappiness,  like  great  happiness,  induces  dreaming.  Some- 
times as  Julie  played  with  her  little  Helene,  she  would  gaze 
darkly  at  her,  giving  no  reply  to  the  childish  questions  in 
which  a  mother  delights,  questioning  the  present  and  the 
future  as  to  the  destiny  of  this  little  one.  Then  some  sudden 
recollection  would  bring  back  the  scene  of  the  review  at  the 
Tuileries  and  fill  her  eyes  with  tears.  Her  father's  prophetic 
warnings  rang  in  her  ears,  and  conscience  reproached  her 
that  she  had  not  recognized  its  wisdom.  Her  troubles  had 
all  come  of  her  own  wayward  folly,  and  often  she  knew  not 
which  among  so  many  was  the  hardest  to  bear.  The  sweet 
treasures  of  her  soul  were  unheeded,  and  not  only  so,  she 
could  never  succeed  in  making  her  husband  understand  her, 
even  in  the  commonest  everyday  things.  Just  as  the  power  to 
love  developed  and  grew  strong  and  active,  a  legitimate 
channel  for  the  affections  of  her  nature  was  denied  her,  and 
wedded  love  was  extinguished  in  grave  physical  and  mental 
sufferings.  Add  to  this  that  she  now  felt  for  her  husband 
that  pity  closely  bordering  upon  contempt,  which  withers  all 
affection  at  last.  Even  if  she  had  not  learned  from  con- 
versations with  some  of  her  friends,  from  examples  in  life, 
from  sundry  occurrences  in  the  great  world,  that  love  can 
bring  ineffable  bliss,  her  own  wounds  would  have  taught  her  to 
divine  the  pure  and  deep  happiness  which  binds  two  kindred 
souls  each  to  each. 

In  the  picture  which  her  memory  traced  of  the  past, 
Arthur's  frank  face  stood  out  daily  nobler  and  purer;  it  was 
but  a  flash,  for  upon  that  recollection  she  dared  not  dwell. 
The  young  Englishman's  shy,  silent  love  for  her  was  the  one 
event  since  her  marriage  which  had  left  a  lingering  sweetness 
in  her  darkened  and  lonely  heart.  It  may  be  that  all  the 
blighted  hopes,  all  the  frustrated  longings  which  gradually 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  43 

clouded  Julie's  mind,  gathered,  by  a  not  unnatural  trick  of 
imagination,  about  this  man — whose  manners,  sentiments, 
and  character  seemed  to  have  so  much  in  common  with  her 
own.  This  idea  still  presented  itself  to  her  mind  fitfully 
and  vaguely,  like  a  dream ;  yet  from  that  dream,  which  always 
ended  in  a  sigh,  Julie  awoke  to  greater  wretchedness,  to 
keener  consciousness  of  the  latent  anguish  brooding  beneath 
her  imaginary  bliss. 

Occasionally  her  self-pity  took  wilder  and  more  daring 
flights.  She  determined  to  have  happiness  at  any  cost;  but 
still  more  often  she  lay  a  helpless  victim  of  an  indescribable 
numbing  stupor,  the  words  she  heard  had  no  meaning  to  her, 
or  the  thoughts  which  arose  in  her  mind  were  so  vague  and 
indistinct  that  she  could  not  find  language  to  express  them. 
Balked  of  the  wishes  of  her  heart,  realities  jarred  harshly 
upon  her  girlish  dreams  of  life,  but  she  was  obliged  to  devour 
her  tears.  To  whom  could  she  make  complaint?  Of  whom 
be  understood  ?  She  possessed,  moreover,  that  highest  degree 
of  woman's  sensitive  pride,  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  feeling 
which  silences  useless  complainings  and  declines  to  use  an 
advantage  to  gain  a  triumph  which  can  only  humiliate  both 
victor  and  vanquished. 

Julie  tried  to  endow  M.  d'Aiglemont  with  her  own  abilities 
and  virtues,  flattering  herself  that  thus  she  might  enjoy  the 
happiness  lacking  in  her  lot.  All  her  woman's  ingenuity 
and  tact  was  employed  in  making  the  best  of  the  situation; 
pure  waste  of  pains  unsuspected  by  him,  whom  she  thus 
strengthened  in  his  despotism.  There  were  moments  when 
misery  became  an  intoxication,  expelling  all  ideas,  all  self- 
control;  but,  fortunately,  sincere  piety  always  brought  her 
back  to  one  supreme  hope;  she  found  a  refuge  in  the  belief 
in  a  future  life,  a  wonderful  thought  which  enabled  her  to 
take  up  her  painful  task  afresh.  No  elation  of  victory  fol- 
lowed those  terrible  inward  battles  and  throes  of  anguish; 
no  one  knew  of  those  long  hours  of  sadness;  her  haggard 
glances  met  no  response  from  human  eyes,  and  during  the 
brief  moments  snatched  by  chance  for  weeping,  her  bitter 
tears  fell  unheeded  and  in  solitude. 


44  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

One  evening  in  January  1820,  the  Marquise  became  aware 
of  the  full  gravity  of  the  crisis,  gradually  brought  on  by 
force  of  circumstances.  When  a  husband  and  wife  know 
each  other  thoroughly,  and  their  relation  has  long  been  a 
matter  of  use  and  wont,  when  the  wife  has  learned  to  in- 
terpret every  slightest  sign,  when  her  quick  insight  discerns 
thoughts  and  facts  which  her  husband  keeps  from  her,  a 
chance  word,  or  a  remark  so  carelessly  let  fall  in  the  first 
instance,  seems,  upon  subsequent  reflection,  like  the  swift 
breaking  out  of  light.  A  wife  not  seldom  suddenly  awakes 
upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice  or  in  the  depths  of  the  abyss; 
and  thus  it  was  with  the  Marquise.  She  was  feeling  glad 
to  have  been  left  to  herself  for  some  days,  when  the  real 
reason  of  her  solitude  flashed  upon  her.  Her  husband,  whether 
fickle  and  tired  of  her,  or  generous  and  full  of  pity  for  her, 
was  hers  no  longer. 

In  the  moment  of  that  discovery  she  forgot  herself,  her 
sacrifices,  all  that  she  had  passed  through,  she  remembered 
only  that  she  was  a  mother.  Looking  forward,  she  thought 
of  her  daughter's  fortune,  of  the  future  welfare  of  the  one 
creature  through  whom  some  gleams  of  happiness  came  to 
her,  of  her  Helene,  the  only  possession  which  bound  her  to 
life. 

Then  Julie  wished  to  live  to  save  her  child  from  a  step- 
mother's terrible  thraldom,  which  might  crush  her  darling's 
life.  Upon  this  new  vision  of  threatened  possibilities  fol- 
lowed one  of  those  paroxysms  of  thought  at  fever-heat  which 
consume  whole  years  of  life. 

Henceforward  husband  and  wife  were  doomed  to  be  sepa- 
rated by  a  whole  world  of  thought,  and  all  the  weight  of  that 
world  she  must  bear  alone.  Hitherto  she  had  felt  sure  that 
Victor  loved  her,  in  so  far  as  he  could  be  said  to  love ;  she  had 
been  the  slave  of  pleasures  which  she  did  not  share;  to-day 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  she  purchased  his  content- 
ment with  her  tears  was  hers  no  longer.  She  was  alone  in  the 
world,  nothing  was  left  to  her  now  but  a  choice  of  evils.  In 
the  calm  stillness  of  the  night  her  despondency  drained  her 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  45 

of  all  her  strength.  She  rose  from  her  sofa  beside  the  dying 
fire,  and  stood  in  the  lamplight  gazing,  dry-eyed,  at  her  child, 
when  M.  d'Aiglemont  came  in.  He  was  in  high  spirits. 
Julie  called  to  him  to  admire  Helene  as  she  lay  asleep,  but  he 
met  his  wife's  enthusiasm  with  a  commonplace : 

"All  children  are  nice  at  that  age." 

He  closed  the  curtains  about  the  cot  after  a  careless  kiss 
on  the  child's  forehead.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Julie, 
took  her  hand  and  drew  her  to  sit  beside  him  on  the  sofa, 
where  she  had  been  sitting  with  such  dark  thoughts  surging 
up  in  her  mind. 

"You  are  looking  very  handsome  to-night,  Mme.  d'Aigle- 
mont," he  exclaimed,  with  the  gaiety  intolerable  to  the  Mar- 
quise, who  knew  its  emptiness  so  well. 

"Where  have  you  spent  the  evening  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  pre- 
tence of  complete  indifference.  . 

"At  Mme.  de  Serizy's." 

He  had  taken  up  a  fire-screen,  and  was  looking  intently 
at  the  gauze.  He  had  not  noticed  the  traces  of  tears  on  his 
wife's  face.  Julie  shuddered.  Words  could  not  express  the 
overflowing  torrent  of  thoughts  which  must  be  forced  down 
into  inner  depths. 

"Mme.  de  Serizy  is  giving  a  concert  on  Monday,  and  is 
dying  for  you  to  go.  You  have  not  been  anywhere  for  some 
time  past,  and  that  is  enough  to  set  her  longing  to  see  you  at 
her  house.  She  is  a  good-natured  woman,  and  very  fond  of 
you.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  go;  I  all  but  promised 
that  you  should " 

"I  will  go." 

There  was  something  so  penetrating,  so  significant  in  the 
tones  of  Julie's  voice,  in  her  accent,  in  the  glance  that  went 
with  the  words,  that  Victor,  startled  out  of  his  indifference, 
stared  at  his  wife  in  astonishment. 

That  was  all.  Julie  had  guessed  that  it  was  Mme.  de 
Serizy  who  had  stolen  her  husband's  heart  from  her.  Her 
brooding  despair  benumbed  her.  She  appeared  to  be  deeply 
interested  in  the  fire.  Victor  meanwhile  still  played  with  the 


46  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

fire-screen.  He  looked  bored,  like  a  man  who  has  enjoyed 
himself  elsewhere,  and  brought  home  the  consequent  lassi- 
tude. He  yawned  once  or  twice,  then  he  took  up  a  candle 
in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  languidly  sought  his  wife's 
neck  for  the  usual  embrace;  but  Julie  stooped  and  received 
the  good-night  kiss  upon  her  forehead;  the  formal,  loveless 
grimace  seemed  hateful  to  her  at  that  moment. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  Victor,  his  wife  sank  into 
a  seat.  Her  limbs  tottered  beneath  her,  she  burst  into  tears. 
None  but  those  who  have  endured  the  torture  of  some  such 
scene  can  fully  understand  the  anguish  that  it  means,  or 
divine  the  horror  of  the  long-drawn  tragedy  arising  out  of  it. 

Those  simple,  foolish  words,  the  silence  that  followed  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife,  the  Marquis'  gesture  and  ex- 
pression, the  way  in  which  he  sat  before  the  fire,  his  attitude 
as  he  made  that  futile  attempt  to  put  a  kiss  on  his  wife's 
throat, — all  these  things  made  up  a  dark  hour  for  Julie,  and 
the  catastrophe  of  the  drama  of  her  sad  and  lonely  life.  In 
her  madness  she  knelt  down  before  the  sofa,  burying  her  face 
in  it  to  shut  out  everything  from  sight,  and  prayed  to 
Heaven,  putting  a  new  significance  into  the  words  of  the 
evening  prayer,  till  it  became  a  cry  from  the  depths  of  her 
own  soul,  which  would  have  gone  to  her  husband's  heart  if  he 
had  heard  it. 

The  following  week  she  spent  in  deep  thought  for  her 
future,  utterly  overwhelmed  by  this  new  trouble.  She  made 
a  study  of  it,  trying  to  discover  a  way  to  regain  her  ascendency 
over  the  Marquis,  scheming  how  to  live  long  enough  to  watch 
over  her  daughter's  happiness,  yet  to  live  true  to  her  own 
heart.  Then  she  made  up  her  mind.  She  would  struggle 
with  her  rival.  She  would  shine  once  more  in  society.  She 
would  feign  the  love  which  she  could  no  longer  feel,  she  would 
captivate  her  husband's  fancy;  and  when  she  had  lured  him 
into  her  power,  she  would  coquet  with  him  like  a  capricious 
mistress  who  takes  delight  in  tormenting  a  lover.  This  hate- 
ful strategy  was  the  only  possible  way  out  of  her  troubles. 
In  this  way  she  would  become  mistress  of  the  situation;  she 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  47 

would  prescribe  her  own  sufferings  at  her  good  pleasure,  and 
reduce  them  by  enslaving  her  husband,  and  bringing  him 
under  a  tyrannous  yoke.  She  felt  not  the  slightest  remorse 
for  the  hard  life  which  he  should  lead.  At  a  bound  she 
reached  cold,  calculating  indifference — -for  her  daughter's 
sake.  She  had  gained  a  sudden  insight  into  the  treacherous, 
lying  arts  of  degraded  women;  the  wiles  of  coquetry,  the  re- 
volting cunning  which  arouses  such  profound  hatred  in  men 
at  the  mere  suspicion  of  innate  corruption  in  a  woman. 

Julie's  feminine  vanity,  her  interests,  and  a  vague  desire  to 
inflict  punishment,  all  wrought  unconsciously  with  the 
mother's  love  within  her  to  force  her  into  a  path  where  new 
sufferings  awaited  her.  But  her  nature  was  too  noble,  her 
mind  too  fastidious,  and,  above  all  things,  too  open,  to  be 
the  accomplice  of  these  frauds  for  very  long.  Accustomed 
as  she  was  to  self-scrutiny,  at  the  first  step  in  vice — for  vice  it 
was — the  cry  of  conscience  must  inevitably  drown  the  clamor 
of  the  passions  and  of  selfishness.  Indeed,  in  a  young  wife 
whose  heart  is  still  pure,  whose  love  has  never  been  mated, 
the  very  sentiment  of  motherhood  is  overpowered  by  modesty. 
Modesty;  is  not  all  womanhood  summed  up  in  that?  But 
just  now  Julie  would  not  see  any  danger,  anything  wrong, 
in  her  new  life. 

She  went  to  Mme.  de  Serizy's  concert.  Her  rival  had  ex- 
pected to  see  a  pallid,  drooping  woman.  The  Marquise  wore 
rouge,  and  appeared  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  toilet  which 
enhanced  her  beauty. 

Mme.  de  Serizy  was  one  of  those  women  who  claim  to  ex- 
ercise a  sort  of  sway  over  fashions  and  society  in  Paris;  she 
issued  her  decrees,  saw  them  received  in  her  own  circle,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  world  obeyed  them.  She  aspired 
to  epigram,  she  set  up  for  an  authority  in  matters  of  taste. 
Literature,  politics,  men  and  women,  all  alike  were  submitted 
to  her  censorship,  and  the  lady  herself  appeared  to  defy  the 
censorship  of  others.  Her  house  was  in  every  respect  a  model 
of  good  taste. 

Julie  triumphed  over  the  Countess  in  her  own  salon,  filled 


48  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

as  it  was  with  beautiful  women  and  women  of  fashion.  Julie's 
liveliness  and  sparkling  wit  gathered  all  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  in  the  rooms  about  her.  Her  costume  was 
faultless,  for  the  despair  of  the  women,  who  one  and  all 
envied  her  the  fashion  of  her  dress,  and  attributed  the 
moulded  outline  of  her  bodice  to  the  genius  of  some  unknown 
dressmaker,  for  women  would  rather  believe  in  miracles 
worked  by  the  science  of  chiffons  than  in  the  grace  and  per- 
fection of  the  form  beneath. 

When  Julie  went  to  the  piano  to  sing  Desdemona's  song, 
the  men  in  the  rooms  flocked  about  her  to  hear  the  celebrated 
voice  so  long  mute,  and  there  was  a  deep  silence.  The 
Marquise  saw  the  heads  clustered  thickly  in  the  doorways, 
saw  all  eyes  turned  upon  her,  and  a  sharp  thrill  of  excitement 
quivered  through  her.  She  looked  for  her  husband,  .gave 
him  a  coquettish  side-glance,  and  it  pleased  her  to  see  that 
his  vanity  was  gratified  to  no  small  degree.  In  the  joy  of  tri- 
umph she  sang  the  first  part  of  Al  piu  salice.  Her  audience 
was  enraptured.  Never  had  Malibran  nor  Pasta  sung  with 
expression  and  intonation  so  perfect.  But  at  the  beginning 
of  the  second  part  she  glanced  over  the  listening  groups  and 
saw — Arthur.  He  never  took  his  eyes  from  her  face.  A 
quick  shudder  thrilled  through  her,  and  her  voice  faltered. 
Up  hurried  Mme.  de  Serizy  from  her  place. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  Oh!  poor  little  thing!  she  is  in  such 
weak  health;  I  was  so  afraid  when  I  saw  her  begin  a  piece 
so  far  beyond  her  strength." 

The  song  was  interrupted.  Julie  was  vexed.  She  had  not 
courage  to  sing  any  longer,  and  submitted  to  her  rival's 
treacherous  sympathy.  There  was  a  whisper  among  the 
women.  The  incident  led  to*  discussions ;  they  guessed  that 
the  struggle  had  begun  between  the  Marquise  and  Mme.  de 
Serizy,  and  their  tongues  did  not  spare  the  latter. 

Julie's  strange,  perturbing  presentiments  were  suddenly 
realized.  Through  her  preoccupation  with  Arthur  she  had 
loved  to  imagine  that  with  that  gentle,  refined  face  he  must 
remain  faithful  to  his  first  love.  There  were  times  when  she 


felt  proud  that  this  ideal,  pure,  and  passionate  young  love 
sh/mld  have  been  hers;  the  passion  of  the  young  lover  whose 
thoughts  are  all  for  her  to  whom  he  dedicates  every  moment 
of  his  life,  who  blushes  as  a  woman  blushes,  thinks  as  a 
woman  might  think,  forgetting  ambition,  fame,  and  fortune 
in  devotion  to  his  love, — she  need  never  fear  a  rival.  All 
these  things  she  had  fondly  and  idly  dreamed  of  Arthur ;  now 
all  at  once  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  dream  had  come  true.  In 
the  young  Englishman's  half-feminine  face  she  read  the  same 
deep  thoughts,  the  same  pensive  melancholy,  the  same  passive 
acquiescence  in  a  painful  lot,  and  an  endurance  like  her  own. 
She  saw  herself  in  him.  Trouble  and  sadness  are  the  most 
eloquent  of  love's  interpreters,  and  response  is  marvelously 
swift  between  two  suffering  creatures,  for  in  them  the  powers 
of  intuition  and  of  assimilation  of  facts  and  ideas  are  well- 
nigh  unerring  and  perfect.  So  with  the  violence  of  the  shock 
the  Marquise's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  whole  extent  of  the 
future  danger.  She  was  only  too  glad  to  find  a  pretext  for 
her  nervousness  in  her  chronic  ill-health,  and  willingly  sub- 
mitted to  be  overwhelmed  by  Mme.  de  Serizy's  insidious  com- 
passion. 

That  incident  of  the  song  caused  talk  and  discussion  which 
differed  with  the  various  groups.  Some  pitied  Julie's  fate, 
and  regretted  that  such  a  remarkable  woman  was  lost  to 
society;  others  fell  to  wondering  what  the  cause  of  her  ill- 
health  and  seclusion  could  be. 

"Well,  now,  my  dear  Ronquerolles,"  said  the  Marquis,  ad- 
dressing Mme.  de  Serizy's  brother,  "you  used  to  envy  me  my 
good  fortune,  and  you  used  to  blame  me  for  my  infidelities. 
Pshaw,  you  would  not  find  much  to  envy  in  my  lot  if,  like 
me,  you  had  a  pretty  wife  so  fragile  that  for  the  past  two 
years  you  might  not  so  much  as  kiss  her  hand  for  fear  of 
damaging  her.  Do  not  you  encumber  yourself  with  one  of 
these  fragile  ornaments,  only  fit  to  put  in  a  glass  case,  so 
brittle  and  so  costly  that  you  are  always  obliged  to  be  careful 
of  them.  They  tell  me  that  you  are  afraid  of  snow  or  wet 
for  that  fine  horse  of  yours;  how  often  do  you  ride  him? 
VOL.  5 — 28 


50  A   WOMAN    OF  THIRTY 

That  is  just  my  own  case.  It  is  true  that  my  wife  gives  me 
no  ground  for  jealousy,  but  my  marriage  is  a  purely  orna- 
mental business;  iff.  you  think  that  I  am  a  married  man,  you 
are  grossly  mistaken.  So  there  is  some  excuse  for  my  un- 
faithfulness. I  should  dearly  like  to  know  what  you  gentle- 
men who  laugh  at  me  would  do  in  my  place.  Not  many  men 
would  be  so  considerate  as  I  am.  I  am  sure,"  (here  he 
lowered  his  voice)  "that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  suspects  nothing. 
And  then,  of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  complain  at  all;  I 
am  very  well  off.  Only  there  is  nothing  more  trying  for 
a  man  who  feels  things  than  the  sight  of  suffering  in  a  poor 
creature  to  whom  you  are  attached " 

"You  must  have  a  very  sensitive  nature,  then/'  said  M.  de 
Ronquerolles,  "for  you  are  not  often  at  home." 

Laughter  followed  on  the  friendly  epigram;  but  Arthur, 
who  made  one  of  the  group,  maintained  a  frigid  imper- 
turbability in  his  quality  of  an  English  gentleman  who  takes 
gravity  for  the  very  basis  of  his  being.  D'Aiglemont's 
eccentric  confidence,  no  doubt,  had  kindled  some  kind  of  hope 
in  Arthur,  for  he  stood  patiently  awaiting  an  opportunity 
of  a  word  with  the  Marquis.  He  had  not  to  wait  long. 

"My  Lord  Marquis,"  he  said,  "I  am  unspeakably  pained  to 
see  the  state  of  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  health.  I  do  not  think 
that  you  would  talk  jestingly  about  it  if  you  knew  that  unless 
she  adopts  a  certain  course  of  treatment  she  must  die  miser- 
ably. If  I  use  this  language  to  you,  it  is  because  I  am  in  a 
manner  justified  in  using  it,  for  I  am  quite  certain  that  I  can 
save  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  life  and  restore  her  to  health  and 
happiness.  It  is  odd,  no  doubt,  that  a  man  of  my  rank  should 
be  a  physician,  yet  nevertheless  chance  determined  that  I 
should  study  medicine.  I  find  life  dull  enough  here,"  he 
continued,  affecting  a  cold  3elfishness  to  gain  his  ends,  "it 
makes  no  difference  to  me  whether  I  spend  my  time  and 
travel  for  the  benefit  of  a  suffering  fellow-creature,  or  waste 
it  in  Paris  on  some  nonsense  or  other.  It  is  very,  very  seldom 
that  a  cure  is  completed  in  these  complaints,  for  they  require 
constant  care,  time,  and  patience,  and,  above  all  things, 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  51 

money.  Travel  is  needed,  and  a  punctilious  following  out  of 
prescriptions,  by  no  means  unpleasant,  and  varied  daily.  Two 
gentlemen"  (laying  a  stress  on  the  word  in  its  English  sense) 
"can  understand  each  other.  I  give  you  warning  that  if  you 
accept  my  proposal,  you  shall  be  a  judge  of  my  conduct  at 
every  moment.  I  will  do  nothing  without  consulting  you, 
without  your  superintendence,  and  I  will  answer  for  the 
success  of  my  method  if  you  will  consent  to  follow  it.  Yes, 
unless  you  wish  to  be  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  husband  no  longer, 
and  that  before  long,"  he  added  in  the  Marquis'  ear. 

The  Marquis  laughed.  "One  thing  is  certain — that  only 
an  Englishman  could  make  me  such  an  extraordinary  pro- 
posal," he  said.  "Permit  me  to  leave  it  unaccepted  and  unre- 
jected.  I  will  think  it  over ;  and  my  wife  must  be  consulted 
first  in  any  case." 

Julie  had  returned  to  the  piano.  This  time  she  sang 
a  song  from  Semiramide,  Son  regina,  son  guerriera,  and  the 
whole  room  applauded,  a  stifled  outburst  of  wellbred  acclama- 
tion which  proved  that  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  had  been 
roused  to  enthusiasm  by  her  singing. 

The  evening  was  over.  D'Aiglemont  brought  his  wife 
home,  and  Julie  saw  with  uneasy  satisfaction  that  her  first 
attempt  had  at  once  been  successful.  Her  husband  had  been 
roused  out  of  indifference  by  the  part  which  she  had  played, 
and  now  he  meant  to  honor  her  with  such  a  passing  fancy  as 
he  might  bestow  upon  some  opera  nymph.  It  amused  Julie 
that  she,  a  virtuous  married  woman,  should  be  treated  thus. 
She  tried  to  play  with  her  power,  but  at  the  outset  her  kind- 
ness broke  down  once  more,  and  she  received  the  most  terrible 
of  all  the  lessons  held  in  store  for  her  by  fate. 

Between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  Julie  sat  up, 
sombre  and  moody,  beside  her  sleeping  husband,  in  the  room 
dimly  lighted  by  the  flickering  lamp.  Deep  silence  prevailed. 
Her  agony  of  remorse  had  lasted  near  an  hour;  how  bitter 
her  tears  had  been  none  perhaps  can  realize  save  women  who 
have  known  such  an  experience  as  hers.  Only  such  natures 
as  Julie's  can  feel  her  loathing  for  a  calculated  caress,  the 


52  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

horror  of  a  loveless  kiss,  of  the  heart's  apostasy  followed 
by  dolorous  prostitution.  She  despised  herself;  she  cursed 
marriage.  She  could  have  longed  for  death;  perhaps  if  it 
had  not  been  for  a  cry  from  her  child,  she  would  have  sprung 
from  the  window  and  dashed  herself  upon  the  pavement. 
M.  d'Aiglemont  slept  on  peacefully  at  her  side;  his  wife's  hot 
dropping  tears  did  not  waken  him. 

But  next  morning  Julie  could  be  gay.  She  made  a  great 
effort  to  look  happy,  to  hide,  not  her  melancholy,  as  hereto- 
fore, but  an  insuperable  loathing.  From  that  day  she  no 
longer  regarded  herself  as  a  blameless  wife.  Had  she  not 
been  false  to  herself  ?  Why  should  she  not  play  a  double  part 
in  the  future,  and  display  astounding  depths  of  cunning  in 
deceiving  her  husband?  In  her  there  lay  a  hitherto  undis- 
covered latent  depravity,  lacking  only  opportunity,  and  her 
marriage  was  the  cause. 

Even  now  she  had  asked  herself  why  she  should  struggle 
with  love,  when,  with  her  heart  and  her  whole  nature  in  revolt, 
she  gave  herself  to  the  husband  whom  she  loved  no  longer. 
Perhaps,  who  knows?  some  piece  of  fallacious  reasoning, 
some  bit  of  special  pleading,  lies  at  the  root  of  all  sins,  of  all 
crimes.  How  shall  society  exist  unless  every  individual  of 
which  it  is  composed  will  make  the  necessary  sacrifices  of  in- 
clination demanded  by  its  laws?  If  you  accept  the  benefits 
of  civilized  society,  do  you  not  by  implication  engage  to  ob- 
serve the  conditions,  the  conditions  of  its  very  existence  ?  And 
yet,  starving  wretches,  compelled  to  respect  the  laws  of  prop- 
erty, are  not  less  to  be  pitied  than  women  whose  natural  in- 
stincts and  sensitiveness  are  turned  to  so  many  avenues  of 
pain. 

A  few  day  after  that  scene  of  which  the  secret  lay  buried 
in  the  midnight  couch,  d'Aiglemont  introduced  Lord  Gren- 
ville.  Julie  gave  the  guest  a  stiffly  polite  reception,  which 
did  credit  to  her  powers  of  dissimulation.  Resolutely  she 
silenced  her  heart,  veiled  her  eyes,  steadied  her  voice,  and  so 
kept  her  future  in  her  own  hands.  Then,  when  by  these  de- 
vices, this  innate  woman-craft,  as  it  may  be  called,  she  had 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  53 

discovered  the  full  extent  of  the  love  which  she  inspired,  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  welcomed  the  hope  of  a  speedy  cure,  and  no 
longer  opposed  her  husband,  who  pressed  her  to  accept  the 
young  doctor's  offer.  Yet  she  declined  to  trust  herself  with 
Lord  Grenville  until,  after  some  further  study  of  his  words 
and  manner,  she  could  feel  certain  that  he  had  sufficient 
generosity  to  endure  his  pain  in  silence.  She  had  absolute 
power  over  him,  and  she  had  begun  to  abuse  that  power 
already.  Was  she  not  a  woman? 

Montcontour  is  an  old  manor-house  built  upon  the  sandy 
cliffs  above  the  Loire,  not  far  from  the  bridge  where  Julie's 
journey  was  interrupted  in  1814.  It  is  a  picturesque,  white 
chateau,  with  turrets  covered  with  fine  stone  carving  like 
Mechlin  lace;  a  chateau  such  as  you  often  see  in  Touraine, 
spick  and  span,  ivy  clad,  standing  among  its  groves  of  mul- 
berry trees  and  vineyards,  with  its  hollow  walks,  its  stone 
balustrades,  and  cellars  mined  in  the  rock  escarpments 
mirrored  in  the  Loire.  The  roofs  of  Montcontour  gleam  in 
the  sun ;  the  whole  land  glows  in  the  burning  heat.  Traces  of 
the  romantic  charm  of  Spain  and  the  south  hover  about  the 
enchanting  spot.  The  breeze  brings  the  scent  of  bell  flowers 
and  golden  broom,  the  air  is  soft,  all  about  you  lies  a  sunny 
land,  a  land  which  casts  its  dreamy  spell  over  your  soul,  a 
land  of  languor  and  of  soft  desire,  a  fair,  sweet-scented 
country,  where  pain  is  lulled  to  sleep  and  passion  wakes. 
No  heart  is  cold  for  long  beneath  its  clear  sky,  beside  its 
sparkling  waters.  One  ambition  dies  after  another,  and  you 
sink  into  a  serene  content  and  repose,  as  the  sun  sinks  at  the 
end  of  the  day  swathed  about  with  purple  and  azure. 

One  warm  August  evening  in  1821  two  people  were  climb- 
ing the  paths  cut  in  the  crags  above  the  chateau,  doubtless 
for  the  sake  of  the  view  from  the  heights  above.  The  two 
were  Julie  and  Lord  Grenville,  but  this  Julie  seemed  to  be 
a  new  creature.  The  unmistakable  color  of  health  glowed  in 
her  face.  Overflowing  vitality  had  brought  a  light  into  her 
eyes,  which  sparkled  through  a  moist  film  with  that  liquid 


54  A   WOMAN    OF  THIRTY 

brightness  which  gives  such  irresistible  charm  to  the  eyes 
of  children.  She  was  radiant  with  smiles ;  she  felt  the  joy  of 
living  and  all  the  possibilities  of  life.  From  the  very  way  in 
which  she  lifted  her  little  feet,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  no  suffer- 
ing trammeled  her  lightest  movements;  there  was  no  heavi- 
ness nor  languor  in  her  eyes,  her  voice,  as  heretofore.  Under 
the  white  silk  sunshade  which  screened  her  from  the  hot  sun- 
light, she  looked  like  some  young  bride  beneath  her  veil,  or  a 
maiden  waiting  to  yield  to  the  magical  enchantments  of  Love. 

Arthur  led  her  with  a  lover's  care,  helping  her  up  the  path- 
way as  if  she  had  been  a  child,  finding  the  smoothest  ways, 
avoiding  the  stones  for  her,  bidding  her  see  glimpses  of 
distance,  or  some  flower  beside  the  path,  always  with  the  un- 
failing goodness,  the  same  delicate  design  in  all  that  he  did; 
the  intuitive  sense  of  this  woman's  wellbeing  seemed  to  be 
innate  in  him,  and  as  much,  na}r,  perhaps  more,  a  part  of  his 
being  as  the  pulse  of  his  own  life. 

The  patient  and  her  doctor  went  step  for  step.  There  was 
nothing  strange  for  them  in  a  sympathy  which  seemed  to  have 
existed  since  the  day  when  first  they  walked  together.  One 
will  swayed  them  both;  they  stopped  as  their  senses  received 
the  same  impression ;  every  word  and  every  glance  told  of  the 
same  thought  in  either  mind.  They  had  climbed  up  through 
the  vineyards,  and  now  they  turned  to  sit  on  one  of  the  long 
white  stones,  quarried  out  of  the  caves  in  the  hillside;  but 
Julie  stood  awhile  gazing  out  over  the  landscape. 

"What  a  beautiful  country!"  she  cried.  "Let  us  put  up  a 
tent  and  live  here.  Victor,  Victor,  do  come  up  here  I" 

M.  d'Aiglemont  answered  by  a  halloo  from  below.  He 
did  not,  however,  hurry  himself,  -merely  giving  his  wife  a 
glance  from  time  to  time  when  the  windings  of  the  path  gave 
him  a  glimpse  of  her.  Julie  breathed  the  air  with  delight. 
She  looked  up  at  Arthur,  giving  him  one  of  those  subtle 
glances  in  which  a  clever  woman  can  put  the  whole  of  her 
thought. 

"Ah,  I  should  like  to  live  here  always,"  she  said.  "Would 
it  be  possible  to  tire  of  this  beautiful  valley? — What  is  the 
picturesque  river  called,  do  you  know  ?" 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  55 

is  the  Cise." 

"The  Cise/'  she  repeated.  "And  all  this  country  below, 
before  us?" 

"Those  are  the  low  hills  above  the  Cher." 

"And  away  to  the  right  ?  Ah,  that  is  Tours.  Only  see  how 
fine  the  cathedral  towers  look  in  the  distance." 

She  was  silent,  and  let  fall  the  hand  which  she  had  stretched 
out  towards  the  view  upon  Arthur's.  Both  admired  the  wide 
landscape  made  up  of  so  much  blended  beauty.  Neither  of 
them  spoke.  The  murmuring  voice  of  the  river,  the  pure  air, 
and  the  cloudless  heaven  were  all  in  tune  with  their  thronging 
thoughts  and  their  youth  and  the  love  in  their  hearts. 

"Oh !  mon  Dieu,  how  I  love  this  country !"  Julie  continued, 
with  growing  and  ingenuous  enthusiasm.  "You  lived  here 
for  a  long  while,  did  you  not  ?"  she  added  after  a  pause. 

A  thrill  ran  through  Lord  Grenville  at  her  words. 

"It  was  down  there,"  he  said,  in  a  melancholy  voice,  in- 
dicating as  he  spoke  a  cluster  of  walnut  trees  by  the  roadside, 
"that  I,  a  prisoner,  saw  you  for  the  first  time." 

"Yes,  but  even  at  that  time  I  felt  very  sad.  This  country 

looked  wild  to  me  then,  but  now She  broke  off,  and 

Lord  Grenville  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her. 

"All  this  pleasure  I  owe  to  you,"  Julie  began  at  last,  after 
a  long  silence.  "Only  the  living  can  feel  the  joy  of  life,  and 
until  now  have  I  not  been  dead  to  it  all?  You  have  given 
me  more  than  health,  you  have  made  me  feel  all  its 
worth- 
Women  have  an  inimitable  talent  for  giving  utterance  to 
strong  feelings  in  colorless  words;  a  woman's  eloquence  lies  in 
tone  and  gesture,  manner  and  glance.  Lord  Grenville  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands,  for  his  tears  filled  his  eyes.  This  was 
Julie's  first  word  of  thanks  since  they  left  Paris  a  year  ago. 

For  a  whole  year  he  had  watched  over  the  Marquise,  putting 
his  whole  self  into  the  task.  D'Aiglemont  seconding  him.  he 
had  taken  her  first  to  Aix,  then  to  la  Eochelle,  to  be  near  the 
sea.  From  moment  to  moment  he  had  watched  the  changes 
worked  in  Julie's  shattered  constitution  by  his  wise  and  simple 


56  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

prescriptions.  He  had  cultivated  her  health  as  an  enthusiastic 
gardener  might  cultivate  a  rare  flower.  Yet,  to  all  appearance, 
the  Marquise  had  quietly  accepted  Arthur's  skill  and  care  with 
the  egoism  of  a  spoiled  Parisienne,  or  like  a  courtesan  who 
has  no  idea  of  the  cost  of  things,  nor  of  the  worth  of  a  man, 
and  judges  of  both  by  their  comparative  usefulness  to  her. 

The  influence  of  places  upon  us  is  a  fact  worth  remarking. 
If  melancholy  comes  over  us  by  the  margin  of  a  great  water, 
another  indelible  law  of  our  nature  so  orders  it  that  the  moun- 
tains exercise  a  purifying  influence  upon  our  feelings,  and 
among  the  hills  passion  gains  in  depth  by  all  that  it  apparently 
loses  in  vivacity.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  wide  country 
by  the  Loire,  the  height  of  the  fair  sloping  hillside  on  which 
the  lovers  sat,  that  induced  the  calm  bliss  of  the  moment  when 
the  whole  extent  of  the  passion  that  lies  beneath  a  few  insig- 
nificant-sounding words  is  divined  for  the  first  time  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  happiness. 

Julie  had  scarcely  spoken  the  words  which  had  moved  Lord 
Grenville  so  deeply,  when  a  caressing  breeze  ruffled  the  tree- 
tops  and  filled  the  air  with  coolness  from  the  river;  a  few 
clouds  crossed  the  sky,  and  the  soft  cloud-shadows  brought 
out  all  the  beauty  of  the  fair  land  below. 

Julie  turned  away  her  head,  lest  Arthur  should  see  the  tears 
which  she  succeeded  in  repressing;  his  emotion  had  spread  at 
once  to  her.  She  dried  her  eyes,  but  she  dared  not  raise  them 
lest  he  should  read  the  excess  of  joy  in  a  glance.  Her  woman's 
instinct  told  her  that  during  this  hour  of  danger  she  must 
hide  her  love  in  the  depths  of  her  heart.  Yet  silence  might 
prove  equally  dangerous,  and  Julie  saw  that  Lord  Grenville 
was  unable  to  utter  a  word.  She  went  on,  therefore,  in  a 
gentle  voice : 

"You  are  touched  by  what  I  have  said.  Perhaps  such  a 
quick  outburst  of  feeling  is  the  way  in  which  a  gracious  and 
kind  nature  like  yours  reverses  a  mistaken  judgment.  You 
must  have  thought  me  ungrateful  when  T  was  cold  and  re- 
served, or  cynical  and  hard,  all  through  the  journey  which, 
fortunately,  is  very  near  its  end.  I  should  not  have  been 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  57 

worthy  of  your  care  if  I  had  been  unable  to  appreciate  it.  I 
have  forgotten  nothing.  Alas !  I  shall  forget  nothing,  not  the 
anxious  way  in  which  you  watched  over  me  as  a  mother 
watches  over  her  child,  nor,  and  above  all  else,  the  noble 
confidence  of  our  life  as  brother  and  sister,  the  delicacy  of  your 
conduct — winning  charms,  against  which  we  women  are  de- 
fenceless. My  lord,  it  is  out  of  my  power  to  make  you  a 
return " 

At  those  words  Julie  hastily  moved  further  away,  and  Lord 
Grenville  made  no  attempt  to  detain  her.  She  went  to  a  rock 
not  far  away,  and  there  sat  motionless.  What  either  felt  re- 
mained a  secret  known  to  each  alone;  doubtless  they  wept  in 
silence.  The  singing  of  the  birds  about  them,  so  blithe,  so 
overflowing  with  tenderness  at  sunset  time,  could  only  increase 
the  storm  of  passion  which  had  driven  them  apart.  Nature 
took  up  their  story  for  them,  and  found  a  language  for  the 
love  of  which  they  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

"And  now,  my  lord/'  said  Julie,  and  she  came  and  stood 
before  Arthur  with  a  great  dignity,  which  allowed  her  to  take 
his  hand  in  hers.  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  hallow  and 
purify  the  life  which  you  have  given  back  to  me.  Here,  we 
will  part.  I  know,"  she  added,  as  she  saw  how  white  his  face 
grew,  "I  know  that  I  am  repaying  you  for  your  devotion  by 
requiring  of  you  a  sacrifice  even  greater  than  any  which  you 
have  hitherto  made  for  me,  sacrifices  so  great  that  they  should 
receive  some  better  recompense  than  this.  .  .  .  But  it 
must  be.  ...  You  must  not  stay  in  France.  By  laying 
this  command  upon  you,  do  I  not  give  you  rights  which  shall 
be  held  sacred?"  she  added,  holding  his  hand  against  her 
beating  heart. 

"Yes,"  said  Arthur,  and  he  rose. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  d'Aiglemont,  who  appeared 
on  the  opposite  side  of  one  of  the  hollow  walks  with  the  child 
in  his  arms.  He  had  scrambled  up  on  the  balustrade  by  the 
chateau  that  little  Helene  might  jump  down. 

"Julie,  I  will  not  say  a  word  of  my  love;  we  understand 
each  other  too  well.  Deeply  and  carefully  though  I  have 


58  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

hidden  the  pleasures  of  my  heart,  you  have  shared  them  all. 
I  feel  it,  I  know  it,  I  see  it.  And  now,  at  this  moment,  as  I 
receive  this  delicious  proof  of  the  constant  sympathy  of  our 
hearts,  I  must  go.  ...  Cunning  schemes  for  getting  rid 
of  him  have  crossed  my  mind  too  often ;  the  temptation  might 
be  irresistible  if  I  stayed  with  you." 

"I  had  the  same  thought,"  she  said,  a  look  of  pained  sur- 
prise in  her  troubled  face. 

Yet  in  her  tone  and  involuntary  shudder  there  was  such 
virtue,  such  certainty  of  herself,  won  in  many  a  hard-fought 
battle  with  a  love  that  spoke  in  Julie's  tones  and  involuntary 
gestures,  that  Lord  Grenville  stood  thrilled  with  admiration 
of  her.  The  mere  shadow  of  a  crime  had  been  dispelled  from 
that  clear  conscience.  The  religious  sentiment  enthroned  on 
the  fair  forehead  could  not  but  drive  away  the  evil  thoughts 
that  arise  unbidden,  engendered  by  our  imperfect  nature, 
thoughts  which  make  us  aware  of  the  grandeur  and  the  perils 
of  human  destiny. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "I  should  have  drawn  down  your 

scorn  upon  me,  and 1  should  have  been  saved,"  she  added, 

and  her  eyes  fell.  "To  be  lowered  in  your  eyes,  what  is  that 
but  death  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  two  heroic  lovers  were  silent,  choking 
down  their  sorrow.  Good  or  ill,  it  seemed  that  their  thoughts 
were  loyally  one,  and  the  joys  in  the  depths  of  their  heart  were 
no  more  experiences  apart  than  the  pain  which  they  strove 
most  anxiously  to  hide. 

"I  have  no  right  to  complain,"  she  said  after  a  while,  "my 
misery  is  of  my  own  making,"  and  she  raised  her  tear-filled 
eyes  to  the  sky. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  remember  it,  but  that  is  the  place  where 
we  met  each  other  for  the  first  time,"  shouted  the  General 
from  below,  and  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  distance. 
"There,  down  yonder,  near  those  poplars  !" 

The  Englishman  nodded  abruptly  by  way  of  answer. 

"So  I  was  bound  to  die  young  and  to  know  no  happiness," 
Julie  continued.  "Yes,  do  not  think  that  I  live.  Sorrow 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  59 

is  just  as  fatal  as  the  dreadful  disease  which  you  have  cured. 
I  do  not  think  that  I  am  to  blame.  No.  My  love  is  stronger 
than  I  am,  and  eternal ;  but  all  unconsciously  it  grew  in  me ; 
and  I  will  not  be  guilty  through  my  love.  Nevertheless, 
though  I  shall  be  faithful  to  my  conscience  as  a  wife,  to  my 
duties  as  a  mother,  I  will  be  no  less  faithful  to  the  instincts  of 
my  heart.  Hear  me,"  she  cried  in  an  unsteady  voice,  "hence- 
forth  I  belong  to  him  no  longer." 

By  a  gesture,  dreadful  to  see  in  its  undisguised  loathing, 
she  indicated  her  husband. 

"The  social  code  demands  that  I  should  make  his  existence 
happy,"  she  continued.  "I  will  obey,  I  will  be  his  servant,  my 
devotion  to  him  shall  be  boundless;  but  from  to-day  I  am  a 
widow.  I  will  neither  be  a  prostitute  in  my  own  eyes  nor  in 
those  of  the  world.  If  I  do  not  belong  to  M.  d'Aiglemont,  I 
will  never  belong  to  another.  You  shall  have  nothing,  nothing- 
save  this  which  you  have  wrung  from  me.  This  is  the  doom 
which  I  have  passed  upon  myself,"  she  said,  looking  proudly 
at  him.  "And  now,  know  this — if  you  give  way  to  a  single 
criminal  thought,  M.  d'Aiglemont's  widow  will  enter  a  con- 
vent in  Spain  or  Italy.  By  an  evil  chance  we  have  spoken  of 
our  love ;  perhaps  that  confession  was  bound  to  come ;  but  our 
hearts  must  never  vibrate  again  like  this.  To-morrow  you 
will  receive  a  letter  from  England,  and  we  shall  part,  and 
never  see  each  other  again." 

The  effort  had  exhausted  all  Julie's  strength.  She  felt  her 
knees  trembling,  and  a  feeling  of  deathly  cold  came  over  her. 
Obeying  a  woman's  instinct,  she  sat  down,  lest  she  should 
sink  into  Arthur's  arms. 

"Julie !"  cried  Lord  Grenville. 

The  sharp  cry  rang  through  the  air  like  a  crack  of  thunder. 
Till  then  he  could  not  speak;  now,  all  the  words  which  the 
dumb  lover  could  not  utter  gathered  themselves  in  that  heart- 
rending appeal. 

"Well,  what  is  wrong  with  her?"  asked  the  General,  who 
had  hurried  up  at  that  cry,  and  now  suddenly  confronted 
the  two. 


6G  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"Nothing  serious,"  said  Julie,  with  that  wonderful  self- 
possession  which  a  woman's  quick-wittedness  usually  brings 
to  her  aid  when  it  is  most  called  for.  "The  chill,  damp  air 
under  the  walnut  tree  made  me  feel  quite  faint  just  now,  and 
that  must  have  alarmed  this 'doctor  of  mine.  Does  he  not 
look  on  me  as  a  very  nearly  finished  work  of  art?  He  was 
startled,  I  suppose,  by  the  idea  of  seeing  it  destroyed."  With 
ostentatious  coolness  she  took  Lord  Grenville's  arm,  smiled  at 
her  husband,  took  a  last  look  at  the  landscape,  and  went  down 
the  pathway,  drawing  her  traveling  companion  with  her. 

"This  certainly  is  the  grandest  view  that  we  have  seen," 
she  said;  "I  shall  never  forget  it.  Just  look,  Victor,  what 
distance,  what  an  expanse  of  country,  and  what  variety  in  it ! 
I  have  fallen  in  love  with  this  landscape." 

Her  laughter  was  almost  hysterical,  but  to  her  husband 
it  sounded  natural.  She  sprang  gaily  down  into  the  hollow 
pathway  and  vanished. 

"What  ?"  she  cried,  when  they  had  left  M.  d'Aiglemont  far 
behind.  "So  soon?  Is  it  so  soon?  Another  moment,  and 
we  can  neither  of  us  be  ourselves ;  we  shall  never  be  ourselves 
again,  our  life  is  over,  in  short " 

"Let  us  go  slowly,"  said  Lord  Grenville,  "the  carriages  are 
still  some  way  off,  and  if  we  may  put  words  into  our  glances, 
our  hearts  may  live  a  little  longer." 

They  went  along  the  footpath  by  the  river  in  the  late  even- 
ing light,  almost  in  silence ;  such  vague  words  as  they  uttered, 
low  as  the  murmur  of  the  Loire,  stirred  their  souls  to  the 
depths.  Just  as  the  sun  sank,  a  last  red  gleam  from  th  sky 
fell  over  them;  it  was  like  a  mournful  symbol  of  their  ill- 
starred  love. 

The  General,  much  put  out  because  the  carriage  was  not 
at  the  spot  where  they  left  it,  followed  and  outstripped  the 
pair  without  interrupting  their  converse.  Lord  Grenville's 
high-minded  and  delicate  behavior  throughout  the  journey 
had  completely  dispelled  the  Marquis'  suspicions.  For  some 
time  past  he  had  left  his  wife  in  freedom,  reposing  confidence 
in  the  noble  amateur's  Punic  faith.  Arthur  and  Julie  walked 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  61 

on  together  in  the  close  and  painful  communion  of  two  hearts 
laid  waste. 

So  short  a  while  ago  as  they  climbed  the  cliffs  at  Mont- 
contour,  there  had  been  a  vague  hope  in  either  mind,  an  un- 
easy joy  for  which  they  dared  not  account  to  themselves ;  but 
now  as  they  came  along  the  pathway  by  the  river,  they  pulled 
down  the  frail  structure  of  imaginings,  the  child's  card- 
castle,  on  which  neither  of  them  had  dared  to  breathe.  That 
hope  was  over. 

That  very  evening  Lord  Grenville  left  them.  His  last  look 
at  Julie  made  it  miserably  plain  that  since  the  moment  when 
sympathy  revealed  the  full  extent  of  a  tyrannous  passion,  he 
did  well  to  mistrust  himself. 

The  next  morning,  M.  d'Aiglemont  and  his  wife  took  their 
places  in  the  carriage  without  their  traveling  companion,  and 
were  whirled  swiftly  along  the  road  to  Blois.  The  Marquise 
was  constantly  put  in  mind  of  the  journey  made  in  1814,  when 
as  yet  she  knew  nothing  of  love,  and  had  been  almost  ready 
to  curse  it  for  its  persistency.  Countless  forgotten  impres- 
sions were  revived.  The  heart  has  its  own  memory.  A 
woman  who  cannot  recollect  the  most  important  great  events 
will  recollect  through  a  lifetime  things  which  appealed  to  her 
feelings;  and  Julie  d'Aiglemont  found  all  the  most  trifling 
details  of  that  journey  laid  up  in  her  mind.  It  was  pleasant 
to  her  to  recall  its  little  incidents  as  they  occurred  to  her  one 
by  one;  there  were  points  in  the  road  when  she  could  even 
remember  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  her  mind  when 
she  saw  them  first. 

Victor  had  fallen  violently  in  love  with  his  wife  since  she 
had  recovered  the  freshness  of  her  youth  and  all  her  beauty, 
and  now  he  pressed  close  to  her  side  like  a  lover.  Once  he 
tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her,  but  she  gently  disengaged  her- 
self, finding  some  excuse  or  other  for  evading  the  harmless 
caress.  In  a  little  while  she  shrank  from  the  close  contact  with 
Victor,  the  sensation  of  warmth  communicated  by  their  po- 
sition. She  tried  to  take  the  unoccupied  place  opposite,  but 
Victor  gallantly  resigned  the  back  seat  to  her.  For  this  at- 


62  A   WOMAN    OK  THIRTY 

tention  she  thanked  him  with  a  sigh,  whereupon  he  forgot 
himself,  and  the  Don  Juan  of  the  garrison  construed  his  wife's 
melancholy  to  his  own  advantage,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  day 
she  was  compelled  to  speak  with  a  firmness  which  impressed 
him. 

"You  have  all  but  killed  me,  dear,  once  already,  as  you 
know,"  said  she.  "If  I  were  still  an  inexperienced  girl,  I 
might  begin  to  sacrifice  myself  afresh;  but  I  am  a  mother, 
I  have  a  daughter  to  bring  up,  and  I  owe  as  much  to  her  as  to 
you.  Let  us  resign  ourselves  to  a  misfortune  which  affects 
us  both  alike.  You  are  the  less  to  be  pitied.  Have  you  not, 
as  it  is,  found  consolations  which  duty  and  the  honor  of  both, 
and  (stronger  still)  which  Nature  forbids  to  me?  Stay," 
she  added,  "you  carelessly  left  three  letters  from  Mme.  de 
Serizy  in  a  drawer;  here  they  are.  My  silence  about  this 
matter  should  make  it  plain  to  you  that  in  me  you  have  a  wife 
who  has  plenty  of  indulgence  and  does  not  exact  from  you  the 
sacrifices  prescribed  by  the  law.  But  I  have  thought  enough 
to  see  that  the  roles  of  husband  and  wife  are  quite  different, 
and  that  the  wife  alone  is  predestined  to  misfortune.  My 
virtue  is  based  upon  firmly  fixed  and  definite  principles.  I 
shall  live  blamelessly,  but  let  me  live." 

The  Marquis  was  taken  aback  by  a  logic  which  women  grasp 
with  the  clear  insight  of  love,  and  overawed  by  a  certain 
dignity  natural  to  them  at  such  crises.  Julie's  instinctive  re- 
pugnance for  all  that  jarred  upon  her  love  arid  the  instincts 
of  her  heart  is  one  of  the  fairest  qualities  of  woman,  and 
springs  perhaps  from  a  natural  virtue  which  neither  laws 
nor  civilization  can  silence.  And  who  shall  dare  to  blame 
women?  If  a  woman  can  silence  the  exclusive  sentiment 
which  bids  her  "forsake  all  other"  for  the  man  whom  she 
loves,  what  is  she  but  a  priest  who  has  lost  his  faith  ?  If  a 
rigid  mind  here  and  there  condemns  Julie  for  a  sort  of  com- 
promise between  love  and  wifely  duty,  impassioned  souls  will 
lay  it  to  her  charge  as  a  crime.  To  be  thus  blamed  by  both 
sides  shows  one  of  two  things  very  clearly — that  misery  neces- 
sarily follows  in  the  train  of  broken  laws,  or  else  that  there 


A    WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  63 

are  deplorable  flaws  in  the  institutions  upon  which  society 
in  Europe  is  based. 

Two  years  went  by.  M.  and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  went  their 
separate  ways,  leading  their  life  in  the  world,  meeting  each 
other  more  frequently  abroad  than  at  home,  a  refinement  upon 
divorce,  in  which  many  a  marriage  in  the  great  world  is  apt 
to  end. 

One  evening,  strange  to  say,  found  husband  and  wife  in 
their  own  drawing-room.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  been  dining 
at  home  with  a  friend,  and  the  General,  who  almost  invariably 
dined  in  town,  had  not  gone  out  for  onqe. 

"There  is  a  pleasant  time  in  store  for  you,  Madame  la 
Marquise,"  said  M.  d'Aiglemont,  setting  his  coffee  cup  down 
upon  the  table.  He  looked  at  the  guest,  Mme.  de  Wimphen, 
and  half-pettishly,  half-mischievously  added,  "I  am  starting 
off  for  several  days'  sport  with  the  Master  of  the  Hounds.  For 
a  whole  week,  at  any  rate,  you  will  be  a  widow  in  good 
earnest;  just  what  you  wish  for,  I  suppose. — Guillaume,"  he 
said  to  the  servant  who  entered,  "tell  them  to  put  the  horses 
in." 

Mme.  de  Wimphen  was  the  friend  to  whom  Julie  had  begun 
the  letter  upon  her  marriage.  The  glances  exchanged  by  the 
two  women  said  plainly  that  in  her  Julie  had  found  an  in- 
timate friend,  an  indulgent  and  invaluable  confidante.  Mme. 
de  Wimphen's  marriage  had  been  a  very  happy  one.  Perhaps 
it  was  her  own  happiness  which  secured  her  devotion  to  Julie's 
unhappy  life,  for  under  such  circumstances,  dissimilarity  of 
destiny  is  nearly  always  a  strong  bond  of  union. 

"Is  the  hunting  season  not  over  yet?"  asked  Julie,  with 
an  indifferent  glance  at  her  husband. 

"The  Master  of  the  Hounds  comes  when  and  where  he 
pleases,  madame.  We  are  going  boar-hunting  in  the  Royal 
Forest." 

"Take  care  that  no  accident  happens  to  you." 

"Accidents  are  usually  unforeseen,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"The  carriage  is  ready,  my  Lord  Marquis,"  said  the  servant. 


64  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

"Madame,  if  I  should  fall  a  victim  to  the  boar "  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  suppliant  air. 

"What  does  this  mean  ?"  inquired  Mme.  de  Wimphen. 

"Come,  come/'  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  turning  to  her 
husband;  smiling  at  her  friend  as  if  to  say,  "You  will  soon 
see." 

Julie  held  up  her  head;  but  as  her  husband  came  close  to 
her,  she  swerved  at  the  last,  so  that  his  kiss  fell  not  on  her 
throat,  but  on  the  broad  frill  about  it. 

"You  will  be  my  witness  before  heaven  now  that  I  need  a 
firman  to  obtain  this  little  grace  of  her,"  said  the  Marquis, 
addressing  Mme.  de  Wimphen.  "This  is  how  this  wife  of 
mine  understands  love.  She  has  brought  me  to  this  pass, 
by  what  trickery  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know.  ...  A  pleasant 
time  to  you !"  and  he  went. 

"But  your  poor  husband  is  really  very  good-natured,"  cried 
Louisa  de  Wimphen,  when  the  two  women  were  alone  to- 
gether. "He  loves  you." 

"Oh !  not  another  syllable  after  that  last  word.  The  name 
I  bear  makes  me  shudder — 

"Yes,  but  Victor  obeys  you  implicitly,"  said  Louisa. 

"His  obedience  is  founded  in  part  upon  the  great  esteem 
which  I  have  inspired  in  him.  As  far  as  outward  things  go, 
I  am  a  model  wife.  I  make  his  house  pleasant  to  him ;  I  shut 
my  eyes  to  his  intrigues ;  I  touch  not  a  penny  of  his  fortune. 
He  is  free  to  squander  the  interest  exactly  as  he  pleases;  I 
only  stipulate  that  he  shall  not  touch  the  principal.  At  this 
price  I  have  peace.  He  neither  explains  nor  attempts  to  ex- 
plain my  life.  But  though  my  husband  is  guided  by  me,  that 
does  not  say  that  I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  his  character. 
I  am  a  bear  leader  who  daily  trembles  lest  the  muzzle  should 
give  way  at  last.  If  Victor  once  took  it  into  his  head  that  I 
had  forfeited  my  right  to  his  esteem,  what  would  happen  next 
I  dare  not  think ;  for  he  is  violent,  full  of  personal  pride,  and 
vain  above  all  things.  While  his  wits  are  not  keen  enough 
to  enable  him  to  behave  discreetly  at  a  delicate  crisis  when 
his  lowest  passions  are  involved,  his  character  is  weak,  and  he 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  65 

would  very  likely  kill  me  provisionally  even  if  he  died  of  re- 
morse next  day.  But  there  is  no  fear  of  that  fatal  good  for- 
tune." 

A  brief  pause  followed.  Both  women  were  thinking  of  the 
real  cause  of  this  state  of  affairs.  Julie  gave  Louisa  a  glance 
which  revealed  her  thoughts. 

"I  have  been  cruelly  obeyed/'  she  cried.  "Yet  I  never  for- 
bade him  to  write  to  me.  Oh !  he  has  forgotten  me,  and  he  is 
right.  If  his  life  had  been  spoiled,  it  would  have  been  too 
tragical ;  one  life  is  enough,  is  it  not  ?  Would  you  believe  it, 
dear;  I  read  English  newspapers  simply  to  see  his  name  in 
print.  But  he  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  in  the  House  of 
Lords." 

"So  you  know  English  ?" 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  ?— Yes,  I  learned." 

"Poor  little  one !"  cried  Louisa,  grasping  Julie's  hand  in 
hers.  "How  can  you  still  live  ?" 

"That  is  the  secret,"  said  the  Marquise,  with  an  involuntary 
gesture  almost  childlike  in  its  simplicity.  "Listen,  I  take 
laudanum.  That  duchess  in  London  suggested  the  idea ;  you 
know  the  story,  Maturin  made  use  of  it  in  one  of  his  novels. 
My  drops  are  very  weak,  but  I  sleep;  I  am  only  awake  for 
seven  hours  in  the  day,  and  those  hours  I  spend  with  my 
child." 

Louisa  gazed  into  the  fire.  The  full  extent  of  her  friend's 
misery  was  opening  out  before  her  for  the  first  time,  and  she 
dared  not  look  into  her  face. 

"Keep  my  secret,  Louisa,"  said  Julie,  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

Just  as  she  spoke  the  footman  brought  in  a  letter  for  the 
Marquise. 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  and  her  face  grew  white. 

"I  need  not  ask  from  whom  it  comes,"  said  Mme.  de 
Wimphen,  but  the  Marquise  was  reading  the  letter,  and  heeded 
nothing  else. 

Mme.  de  Wimphen,  watching  her  friend,  saw  strong  feeling 

wrought  to  the  highest  pitch,  ecstasy  of  the  most  dangerous 
VOL.  5—29 


66  A   WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

kind  painted  on  Julie's  face  in  swift  changing  white  and  red. 
At  length  Julie  flung  the  sheet  into  the  fire. 

"It  burns  like  fire,"  she  said.  "Oh !  my  heart  beats  till  I 
cannot  breathe." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  walked  up  and  down.  Her  eyes 
were  blazing. 

"He  did  not  leave  Paris !"  she  cried. 

Mme.  de  Wimphen  did  not  dare  to  interrupt  the  words  that 
followed,  jerked-out  sentences,  measured  by  dreadful  pauses 
in  between.  After  every  break  the  deep  notes  of  her  voice 
sank  lower  and  lower.  There  was  something  awful  about  the 
last  words. 

"He  has  seen  me,  constantly,  and  I  have  not  known  it. — A 
look,  taken  by  stealth,  every  day,  helps  him  to  live. — Louisa, 
you  do  not  know ! — He  is  dying. — He  wants  to  say  good-bye 
to  me.  He  knows  that  my  husband  has  gone  away  for  several 
days.  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  Oh !  I  shall  die :  I  am 
lost. — Listen,  Louisa,  stay  with  me  !  Two  women  and  he  will 
not  dare Oh !  stay  with  me ! — I  am  afraid!" 

"But  my  husband  knows  that  I  have  been  dining  with  you ; 
he  is  sure  to  come  for  me,"  said  Mme.  de  Wimphen. 

"Well,  then,  before  you  go  I  will  send  him  away.  I  will 
play  the  executioner  for  us  both.  Oh  me !  he  will  think  that  I 
do  not  love  him  any  more —  And  that  letter  of  his  !  Dear, 
I  can  see  those  words  in  letters  of  fire." 

A  carriage  rolled  in  under  the  archway. 

"Ah !"  cried  the  Marquise,  with  something  like  joy  in  her 
voice,  "he  is  coming  openly.  He  makes  no  mystery  of  it." 

"Lord  Grenville,"  announced  the  servant. 

The  Marquise  stood  up  rigid  and  motionless;  but  at  the 
sight  of  Arthur's  white  face,  so  thin  and  haggard,  how  was  it 
possible  to  keep  Tip  the  show  of  severity  ?  Lord  Grenville  saw 
that  Julie  was  not  alone,  but  he  controlled  his  fierce  annoy- 
ance, and  looked  cool  and  unperturbed.  Yet  for  the  two 
women  who  knew  his  secret,  his  face,  his  tones,  the  look  in  his 
eyes  had  something  of  the  power  attributed  to  the  torpedo. 
Their  faculties  were  benumbed  by  the  sharp  shock  of  contact 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  67 

with  his  horrible  pain.  The  sound  of  his  voice  set  Julie'& 
heart  beating  so  cruelly  that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak ;  she  was  afraid  that  he  would  see  the  full  extent  of  his 
power  over  her.  Lord  Grenville  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Julie, 
and  Mme.  de  Wimphen  was  left  to  sustain  a  conversation 
to  which  no  one  listened.  Julie  glanced  at  her  friend  with 
touching  gratefulness  in  her  eyes  to  thank  her  for  coming 
to  her  aid. 

By  this  time  the  lovers  had  quelled  emotion  into  silence, 
and  could  preserve  the  limits  laid  down  by  duty  and  con- 
vention. But  M.  de  Wimphen  was  announced,  and  as  he 
came  in  the  two  friends  exchanged  glances.  Both  felt  the 
difficulties  of  this  fresh  complication.  It  was  impossible  to 
enter  into  explanations  with  M.  de  Wimphen,  and  Louisa 
could  not  think  of  any  sufficient  pretext  for  asking  to  be  left. 

Julie  went  to  her,  ostensibly  to  wrap  her  up  in  her  shawl. 
"I  will  be  brave,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "He  came  here 
in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  so  what  have  I  to  fear?  Yet 
but  for  you,  in  that  first  moment,  when  I  saw  how  changed 
he  looked,  I  should  have  fallen  at  his  feet." 

"Well,  Arthur,  you  have  broken  your  promise  to  me,"  she 
said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  when  she  returned.  Lord  Gren- 
ville did  not  venture  to  take  the  seat  upon  the  sofa  by  her 
side. 

"I  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  voice,  of 
being  near  you.  The  thought  of  it  came  to  be  a  sort  of  mad- 
ness, a  delirious  frenzy.  I  am  no  longer  master  of  myself. 
I  have  taken  myself  to  task;  it  is  no  use,  I  am  too  weak,  I 
ought  to  die.  But  to  die  without  seeing  you,  without  having 
heard  the  rustle  of  your  dress,  or  felt  your  tears.  What  a 
death !" 

He  moved  further  away  from  her ;  but  in  his  hasty  uprising 
a  pistol  fell  out  of  his  pocket.  The  Marquise  looked  down 
blankly  at  the  weapon;  all  passion,  all  expression  had  died 
out  of  her  eyes.  Lord  Grenville  stooped  for  the  thing,  raging 
inwardly  over  an  accident  which  seemed  like  a  piece  of  love- 
sick strategy. 


68  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"Arthur!" 

"Madame/'  he  said,  looking  down,  "I  came  here  in  utter 
desperation;  I  meant —  "  he  broke  off. 

"You  meant  to  die  by  your  own  hand  here  in  my  house !" 

"Xot  alone !"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Not  alone !     My  husband,  perhaps — 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  in  a  choking  voice.  "Reassure  your- 
self," he  continued,  "I  have  quite  given  up  my  deadly  purpose. 
As  soon  as  I  came  in,  as  soon  as  I  saw  you,  I  felt  that  I  was 
strong  enough  to  suffer  in  silence,  and  to  die  alone." 

Julie  sprang  up,  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  Through 
her  sobbing  he  caught  a  few  passionate  words,  "To  know  hap- 
piness, and  then  to  die. — Yes,  let  it  be  so." 

All  Julie's  story  was  summed  up  in  that  cry  from  the 
lepths;  it  was  the  summons  of  nature  and  of  love  at  which 
women  without  a  religion  surrender.  With  the  fierce  energy 
of  unhoped-for  joy,  Arthur  caught  her  up  and  carried  her  to 
the  sofa;  but  in  a  moment  she  tore  herself  from  her  lover's 
arms,  looked  at  him  with  a  fixed  despairing  gaze,  took  his 
hand,  snatched  up  a  candle,  and  drew  him  into  her  room. 
When  they  stood  by  the  cot  where  Helene  lay  sleeping,  she 
put  the  curtains  softly  aside,  shading  the  candle  with  her 
hand,  lest  the  light  should  dazzle  the  half-closed  eyes  beneath 
the  transparent  lids.  Helene  lay  smiling  in  her  sleep,  with 
her  arms  outstretched  on  the  coverlet.  Julie  glanced  from 
her  child  to  Arthur's  face.  That  look  told  him  all. 

"We  may  leave  a  husband,  even  though  he  loves  us :  a  man 
is  strong;  he  has  consolations. — We  may  defy  the  world  and 
its  laws.  But  a  motherless  child !" — all  these  thoughts,  and 
a  thousand  others  more  moving  still,  found  language  in  that 
glance. 

"We  can  take  her  with  us,"  muttered  he;  "I  will  love  her 
dearly." 

"Mamma !"  cried  little  Helene,  now  awake.  Julie  burst 
into  tears.  Lord  Grenville  sat  down  and  folded  his  arms  in 
gloomy  silence. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  69 

"Mamma !"  At  the  sweet  childish  name,  so  many  nobler 
feelings,  so  many  irresistible  yearnings  awoke,  that  for  a 
moment  love  was  effaced  by  the  all-powerful  instinct  of 
motherhood ;  the  mother  triumphed  over  the  woman  in  Julie, 
and  Lord  Grenville  could  not  hold  out,  he  was  defeated  by 
Julie's  tears. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  door  was  flung  noisily  open.  "Ma- 
dame d'Aiglemont,  are  you  hereabouts  ?"  called  a  voice  which 
rang  like  a  crack  of  thunder  through  the  hearts  of  the  two 
lovers.  The  Marquis  had  come  home. 

Before  Julie  could  recover  her  presence  of  mind,  her  hus- 
band was  on  the  way  to  the  door  of  her  room  which  opened 
into  his.  Luckily,  at  a  sign,  Lord  Grenville  escaped  into  the 
dressing-closet,  and  she  hastily  shut  the  door  upon  him. 

<fWell,  my  lady,  here  am  I"  said' Victor,  "the  hunting  party 
did  not  come  off.  I  am  just  going  to  bed." 

"Good-night,  so  am  I.     So  go  and  leave  me  to  undress/' 

"You  are  very  cross  to-night,  Madame  la  Marquise." 

The  General  returned  to  his  room,  Julie  went  with  him  to 
the  door  and  shut  it.  Then  she  sprang  to  the  dressing-closet 
to  release  Arthur.  All  her  presence  of  mind  returned;  she 
bethought  herself  that  it  was  quite  natural  that  her  sometime 
doctor  should  pay  her  a  visit ;  she  might  have  left  him  in  the 
drawing-room  while  she  put  her  little  girl  to  bed.  She  was 
about  to  tell  him,  under  her  breath,  to  go  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  had  opened  the  door.  Then  she  shrieked  aloud. 
Lord  Grenville's  fingers  had  been  caught  and  crushed  in  the 
door. 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?"  demanded  her  husband. 

"Oh !  nothing,  nothing,  I  have  just  pricked  my  finger  with 
a  pin." 

The  General's  door  opened  at  once.  Julie  imagined  that 
the  irruption  was  due  to  a  sudden-  concern  for  her,  and  cursed 
a  solicitude  in  which  love  had  no  part.  She  had  barely  time  to 
close  the  dressing-closet,  and  Lord  Grenville  had  not  extri- 
cated his  hand.  The  General  did,  in  fact,  appear,  but  his 
wife  had  mistaken  his  motives;  Ms  apprehensions  were  en- 
tirely on  his  own  account. 


70  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

"Can  you  lend  me  a  bandana  handkerchief?  That  stupid 
fool  Charles  leaves  me  without  a  single  one.  In  the  early 
days  you  used  to  bother  me  with  looking  after  me  so  carefully. 
Ah,  well,  the  honeymoon  did  not  last  very  long  for  me,  nor 
yet  for  my  cravats.  Nowadays  I  am  given  over  to  the  secular 
arm,  in  the  shape  of  servants  who  do  not  care  one  jack  straw 
for  what  I  say." 

"There !  There  is  a  bandana  for  you.  Did  you  go  into 
the  drawing-room  ?" 

"No." 

"Oh!  you  might  perhaps  have  been  in  time  to  see  Lord 
Grenville. 

"Is  he  in  Paris?" 

"It  seems  so." 

"Oh !  I  will  go  at  once.     The  good  doctor." 

"But  he  will  have  gone  by  now !"  exclaimed  Julie. 

The  Marquis,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  was 
tying  the  handkerchief  over  his  head.  He  looked  complacently 
at  himself  in  the  glass. 

"What  has  become  of  the  servants  is  more  than  I  know,"  he 
remarked.  "I  have  rung  the  bell  three  times  for  Charles,  and 
he  has  not  answered  it.  And  your  maid  is  not  here  either. 
Eing  for  her.  I  should  like  another  blanket  on  my  bed  to- 
night." 

"Pauline  is  out,"  the  Marquise  said  drily. 

"What,  at  midnight !"  exclaimed  the  General. 

"I  gave  her  leave  to  go  to  the  Opera." 

"That  is  funny !"  returned  her  husband,  continuing  to  un- 
dress. "I  thought  I  saw  her  coming  upstairs." 

"She  has  come  in  then,  of  course,"  said  Julie,  with  assumed 
impatience,  and  to  allay  any  possible  suspicion  on  her  hus- 
band's part  she  pretended  to  ring  the  bell. 

The  whole  history  of  that  night  has  never  been  known,  but 
no  doubt  it  was  as  simple  and  as  tragically  commonplace  as 
the  domestic  incidents  that  preceded  it. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  71 

Next  day  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  took  to  her  bed,,  nor 
did  she  leave  it  for  some  days. 

"What  can  have  happened  in  your  family  so  extraordinary 
that  every  one  is  talking  about  your  wife  ?"  asked  M.  de  Ron- 
qnerolles  of  M.  d'Aiglemont  a  short  time  after  that  night  of 
catastrophes. 

"Take  my  advice  and  remain  a  bachelor,"  said  d'Aigle- 
mont. "The  curtains  of  Helene's  cot  caught  fire,  and  gave 
my  wife  such  a  shock  that  it  will  be  a  twelvemonth  before  she 
gets  over  it;  so  the  doctor  says.  You  marry  a  pretty  wife, 
and  her  looks  fall  off;  you  marry  a  girl  in  blooming  health, 
and  she  turns  into  an  invalid.  You  think  she  has  a  passion- 
ate temperament,  and  find  her  cold,  or  else  under  her  ap- 
parent coldness  there  lurks  a  nature  so  passionate  that  she 
is  the  death  of  you,  or  she  dishonors  your  name.  Sometimes 
the  meekest  of  them  will  turn  out  crotchety,  though  the 
crotchety  ones  never  grow  any  sweeter.  Sometimes  the  mere 
child,  so  simple  and  silly  at  first,  will  develop  an  iron  will 
to  thwart  you  and  the  ingenuity  of  a  fiend.  I  am  tired  of 
marriage." 

"Or  of  your  wife  ?" 

"That  would  be  difficult.  By-the-by,  do  you  feel  inclined 
to  go  to  Saint-Thomas  d'Aquin  with  me  to  attend  Lord  Gren- 
ville's  funeral?" 

"A  singular  way  of  spending  time. — Is  it  really  known 
how  he  came  by  his  death  ?"  added  Ronquerolles. 

"His  man  says  that  he  spent  a  whole  night  sitting  on  some- 
body's window  sill  to  save  some  woman's  character,  and  it  has 
been  infernally  cold  lately." 

"Such  devotion  would  be  highly  creditable  to  one  of  us  old 
stagers ;  but  Lord  Grenville  was  a  youngster  and — an  English- 
man. Englishmen  never  can  do  anything  like  anybody  else." 

"Pooh !"  returned  d'Aiglemont,  "these  heroic  exploits  all 
depend  upon  the  woman  in  the  case,  and  it  certainly  was  not 
for  one  that  I  know,  that  poor  Arthur  came  by  his  death." 


72  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

II. 

A  HIDDEN  GRIEF 

BETWEEN  the  Seine  and  the  little  river  Loing  lies  a  wide  flat 
country,  skirted  on  the  one  side  by  the  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,  and  marked  out  as  to  its  southern  limits  by  the  towns 
of  Moret,  Montereau,  and  Nemours.  It  is  a  dreary  country; 
little  knolls  of  hills  appear  only  at  rare  intervals,  and  a  coppice 
here  and  there  among  the  fields  affords  cover  for  game;  and 
beyond,  upon  every  side,  stretches  the  endless  gray  or  yellow- 
ish horizon  peculiar  to  Beauce,  Sologne,  and  Berri. 

In  the  very  centre  of  the  plain,  at  equal  distances  from 
Moret  and  Montereau,  the  traveler  passes  the  old  chateau  of 
Saint-Lange,  standing  amid  surroundings  which  lack  neither 
dignity  nor  stateliness.  There  are  magnificent  avenues  of 
elm-trees,  great  gardens  encircled  by  the  moat,  and  a  cir- 
cumference of  walls  about  a  huge  manorial  pile  which 
represents  the  profits  of  the  maltote,  the  gains  of  farmers- 
general,  legalized  malversation,  or  the  vast  fortunes  of  great 
houses  now  brought  low  beneath  the  hammer  of  the  Civil 
Code. 

Should  any  artist  or  dreamer  of  dreams  chance  to  stray 
along  the  roads  full  of  deep  ruts,  or  over  the  heavy  land  which 
secures  the  place  against  intrusion,  he  will  wonder  how  it 
happened  that  this  romantic  old  place  was  set  down  in  a 
savanna  of  corn-land,  a  desert  of  chalk,  and  sand,  and  marl, 
where  gaiety  dies  away,  and  melancholy  is  a  natural  product 
of  the  soil.  The  voiceless  solitude,  the  monotonous  horizon 
line  which  weigh  upon  the  spirits  are  negative  beauties, 
which  only  suit  with  sorrow  that  refuses  to  be  comforted. 

Hither,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1820,  came  a  woman,  still 
young,  well  known  in  Paris  for  her  charm,  her  fair  face,  and 
her  wit;  and  to  the  immense  astonishment  of  the  little  village 
a  mile  away,  this  woman  of  high  rank  and  corresponding 
fortune  took  up  her  abode  at  Saint-Lange. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  73 

From  time  immemorial,  farmers  and  laborers  had  seen  no 
gentry  at  the  chateau.  The  estate,  considerable  though  it 
was,  had  been  left  in  charge  of  a  land-steward  and  the  house 
to  the  old  servants.  Wherefore  the  appearance  of  the  lady 
of  the  manor  caused  a  kind  of  sensation  in  the  district. 

A  group  had  gathered  in  the  yard  of  the  wretched  little 
wineshop  at  the  end  of  the  village  (where  the  road  forks  to 
Nemours  and  Moret)  to  see  the  carriage  pass.  It  went  by 
slowly,  for  the  Marquise  had  come  from  Paris  with  her  own 
horses,  and  those  on  the  lookout  had  ample  opportunity  of 
observing  a  waiting-maid,  who  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
horses  holding  a  little  girl,  with  a  somewhat  dreamy  look, 
upon  her  knee.  The  child's  mother  lay  back  in  the  carriage ; 
she  looked  like  a  dying  woman  sent  out  into  country  air  by 
her  doctors  as  a  last  resource.  Village  politicians  were  by 
no  means  pleased  to  see  the  young,  delicate,  downcast  face; 
they  had  hoped  that  the  new  arrival  at  Saint-Lange  would 
bring  some  life  and  stir  into  the  neighborhood,  and  clearly 
any  sort  of  stir  or  movement  must  be  distasteful  to  the  suffer- 
ing invalid  in  the  traveling  carriage. 

That  evening,  when  the  notables  of  Saint-Lange  were  drink- 
ing in  the  private  room  of  the  wineshop,  the  longest  head 
among  them  declared  that  such  depression  could  admit  of  but 
one  construction — the  Marquise  was  ruined.  His  lordship 
the  Marquis  was  away  in  Spain  with  the  Due  d'Angouleme 
(so  they  said  in  the  papers),  and  beyond  a  doubt  her  lady- 
ship had  come  to  Saint-Lange  to  retrench  after  a  run  of  ill- 
luck  on  the  Bourse.  The  Marquis  was  one  of  the  greatest 
gamblers  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  Perhaps  the  estate  would 
be  cut  up  and  sold  in  little  lots.  There  would  be  some  good 
strokes  of  business  to  be  made  in  that  case,  and  it  behooved 
everybody  to  count  up  his  cash,  unearth  his  savings  and  to 
see  how  he  stood,  so  as  to  secure  his  share  of  the  spoil  of 
Saint-Lange. 

So  fair  did  this  future  seem,  that  the  village  worthies, 
dying  to  know  whether  it  was  founded  on  fact,  began  to  think 
of  ways  of  getting  at  the  truth  through  the  servants  at  the 


74  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

chateau.  None  of  these,  however,  could  throw  any  light  on 
the  calamit}-  which  had  brought  their  mistress  into  the  coun- 
try at  the  beginning  of  winter,  and  to  the  old  chateau  of  Saint- 
Lange  of  all  places,  when  she  might  have  taken  her  choice  of 
cheerful  country-houses  famous  for  their  beautiful  gardens. 

His  worship  the  mayor  called  to  pay  his  respects:  but  he 
did  not  see  the  lady.  Then  the  land-steward  tried  with  no 
better  success. 

Madame  la  Marquise  kept  her  room,  only  leaving  it,  while 
it  was  set  in  order,  for  the  small  adjoining  drawing-room, 
where  she  dined;  if,  indeed,  to  sit  down  to  a  table,  to  look 
with  disgust  at  the  dishes,  and  take  the  precise  amount  of 
nourishment  required  to  prevent  death  from  sheer  starvation, 
can  be  called  dining.  The  meal  over,  she  returned  at  once 
to  the  old-fashioned  low  chair,  in  which  she  had  sat  since  the 
morning,  in  the  embrasure  of  the  one  window  that  lighted 
her  room. 

Her  little  girl  she  only  saw  for  a  few  minutes  daily,  during 
the  dismal  dinner,  and  even  for  that  short  time  she  seemed 
scarcely  able  to  bear  the  child's  presence.  Surely  nothing 
but  the  most  unheard-of  anguish  could  have  extinguished  a 
mother's  love  so  early. 

None  of  the  servants  were  suffered  to  come  near,  her  own 
woman  was  the  one  creature  whom  she  liked  to  have  about 
her ;  the  chateau  must  be  perfectly  quiet,  the  child  must  play 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house.  The  slightest  sound  had  grown 
so  intolerable,  that  any  human  voice,  even  the  voice  of  her  own 
child,  jarred  upon  her. 

At  first  the  whole  countryside  was  deeply  interested  in  these 
eccentricities;  but  time  passed  on,  every  possible  hypothesis 
had  been  advanced  to  account  for  them,  and  the  peasants  and 
dwellers  in  the  little  country  towns  thought  no  more  of  the 
invalid  lady. 

So  the  Marquise  was  left  to  herself.  She  might  live  on, 
perfectly  silent,  amid  the  silence  which  she  herself  had 
created ;  there  was  nothing  to  draw  her  forth  from  the  tapes- 
tried chamber  where  her  grandmother  had  died,  whither 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  75 

she  herself  had  come  that  she  might  die,  gently,  without 
witnesses,  without  importunate  solicitude,  without  suffering 
from  the  insincere  demonstrations  of  egoism  masquerading 
as  affection,  which  double  the  agony  of  death  in  great  cities. 

She  was  twenty-six  years  old.  At  that  age,  with  plenty  of 
romantic  illusions  still  left,  the  mind  loves  to  dwell  on  the 
thought  of  death  when  death  seems  to  come  as  a  friend.  But 
with  youth,  death  is  coy,  coming  up  close  only  to  go  away, 
showing  himself  and  hiding  again,  till  youth  has  time  to  fall 
out  of  love  with  him  during  this  dalliance.  There  is  that  un- 
certainty too  that  hangs  over  death's  to-morrow.  Youth 
plunges  back  into  the  world  of  living  men,  there  to  find  the 
pain  more  pitiless  than  death,  that  docs  not  wait  to  strike. 

This  woman  who  refused  to  live  was  to  know  the  bitter- 
ness of  these  reprieves  in  the  depths  of  her  loneliness;  in 
moral  agony,  which  death  would  not  come  to  end,  she  was  to 
serve  a  terrible  apprenticeship  to  the  egoism  which  must  take 
the  bloom  from  her  heart  and  break  her  in  to  the  life  of  the 
world. 

This  harsh  and  sorry  teaching  is  the  usual  outcome  of  our 
early  sorrows.  For  the  first,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time 
in  her  life,  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  was  in  very  truth 
suffering.  And,  indeed,  would  it  not  be  an  error  to  suppose 
that  the  same  sentiment  can  be  reproduced  in  us?  Once 
develop  the  power  to  feel,  is  it  not  always  there  in  the  depths 
of  our  nature?  The  accidents  of  life  may  lull  or  awaken  it, 
but  there  it  is,  of  necessity  modifying  the  self,  its  abiding 
place.  Hence,  every  sensation  should  have  its  great  day  once 
and  for  all,  its  first  day  of  storm,  be  it  long  or  short.  Hence, 
likewise,  pain,  the  most  abiding  of  our  sensations,  could  be 
keenly  felt  only  at  its  first  irruption,  its  intensity  diminish- 
ing with  every  subsequent  paroxysm,  either  because  we  grow 
accustomed  to  these  crises,  or  perhaps  because  a  natural  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation  asserts  itself,  and  opposes  to  the  de- 
stroying force  of  anguish  an  equal  but  passive  force  of  inertia. 

Yet  of  all  kinds  of  suffering,  to  which  does  the  name  of 
anguish  belong?  For  the  loss  of  parents,  Nature  has  in  a 


76  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

manner  prepared  us ;  physical  suffering,  again,  is  an  evil  which 
passes  over  us  and  is  gone;  it  lays  no  hold  upon  the  soul; 
if  it  persists,  it  ceases  to  be  an  evil,  it  is  death.  The  young 
mother  loses  her  firstborn,  but  wedded  love  ere  long  gives  her 
a  successor.  This  grief,  too,  is  transient.  After  all,  these, 
and  many  other  troubles  like  unto  them.,  are  in  some  sort 
wounds  and  bruises;  they  do  not  sap  the  springs  of  vitality, 
and  only  a  succession  of  such  blows  can  crush  in  us  the  in- 
stinct that  seeks  happiness.  Great  pain,  therefore,  pain  that 
arises  to  anguish,  should  be  suffering  so  deadly,  that  past, 
present,  and  future  are  alike  included  in  its  grip,  and  no  part 
of  life  is  left  sound  and  whole.  Never  afterwards  can  we 
think  the  same  thoughts  as  before.  Anguish  engraves  itself 
in  ineffaceable  characters  on  mouth  and  brow;  it  passes 
through  us,  destroying  or  relaxing  the  springs  that  vibrate  to 
enjoyment,  leaving  behind  in  the  soul  the  seeds  of  a  disgust 
for  all  things  in  this  world. 

Yet,  again,  to  be  measureless,  to  weigh  like  this  upon  body 
and  soul,  the  trouble  should  befall  when  soul  and  body  have 
just  come  to  their  full  strength,  and  smite  down  a  heart  that 
beats  high  with  life.  Then  it  is  that  great  scars  are  made. 
Terrible  is  the  anguish.  None,  it  may  be,  can  issue  from  this 
soul-sickness  without  undergoing  some  dramatic  change. 
Those  who  survive  it,  those  who  remain  on  earth,  return  to 
the  world  to  wear  an  actor's  countenance  and  to  play  an 
actor's  part.  They  know  the  side-scenes  where  actors  may 
retire  to  calculate  chances,  shed  their  tears,  or  pass  their  jests. 
Life  holds  no  inscrutable  dark  places  for  those  who  have 
passed  through  this  ordeal;  their  judgments  are  Khada- 
manthine. 

For  young  women  of  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont's  age,  this 
first,  this  most  poignant  pain  of  all,  is  always  referable  to  the 
same  cause.  A  woman,  especially  if  she  is  a  young  woman, 
greatly  beautiful,  and  by  nature  great,  never  fails  to  stake 
her  whole  life  as  instinct  and  sentiment  and  society  all  unite 
to  bid  her.  Suppose  that  that  life  fails  her,  suppose  that  she 
still  lives  on,  she  cannot  but  endure  the  most  cruel  pangs, 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  77 

inasmuch  as  a  first  love  is  the  loveliest  of  all.  How  comes  it 
that  this  catastrophe  has  found  no  painter,  no  poet?  And 
yet,  can  it  be  painted  ?  Can  it  be  sung  ?  No ;  for  the  anguish 
arising  from  it  eludes  analysis  and  defies  the  colors  of  art. 
And  more  than  this,  such  pain  is  never  confessed.  To  con- 
sole the  sufferer,  you  must  be  able  to  divine  the  past  which 
she  hugs  in  bitterness  to  her  soul  like  a  remorse;  it  is  like 
an  avalanche  in  a  valley;  it  laid  all  waste  before  it  found  a 
permanent  resting-place. 

The  Marquise  was  suffering  from  this  anguish,  which  will 
for  long  remain  unknown,  because  the  whole  world  condemns 
it,  while  sentiment  cherishes  it,  and  the  conscience  of  a  true 
woman  justifies  her  in  it.  It  is  with  such  pain  as  with  chil- 
dren steadily  disowned  of  life,  and  therefore  bound  more 
closely  to  the  mother's  heart  than  other  children  more 
bounteously  endowed.  Never,  perhaps,  was  the  awful  catas- 
trophe in  which  the  whole  world  without  dies  for  us,  so  deadly, 
so  complete,  so  cruelly  aggravated  by  circumstance  as  it  had 
been  for  the  Marquise.  The  man  whom  she  had  loved  was 
young  and  generous;  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  the  world, 
she  had  refused  herself  to  his  love,  and  he  had  died  to  save 
a  woman's  honor,  as  the  world  calls  it.  To  whom  could  she 
speak  of  her  misery?  Her  tears  would  be  an  offence  against 
her  husband,  the  origin  of  the  tragedy.  By  all  laws  written 
and  unwritten  she  was  bound  over  to  silence.  A  woman  would 
have  enjoyed  the  story;  a  man  would  have  schemed  for  his 
own  benefit.  No;  such  grief  as  hers  can  only  weep  freely  in 
solitude  and  in  loneliness;  she  must  consume  her  pain  or  be 
consumed  by  it;  die  or  kill  something  within  her — her  con- 
science, it  may  be. 

Day  after  day  she  sat  gazing  at  the  flat  horizon.  It  lay 
out  before  her  like  her  own  life  to  come.  There  was  nothing 
to  discover,  nothing  to  hope.  The  whole  of  it  could  be  seen 
at  a  glance.  It  was  the  visible  presentment  in  the  outward 
world  of  the  chill  sense  of  desolation  which  was  gnawing  rest- 
lessly at  her  heart.  The  misty  mornings,  the  pale,  bright 
sky,  the  low  clouds  scudding  under  the  gray  dome  of  heaven, 


78  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

fitted  with  the  moods  of  her  soul-sickness.  Her  heart  did  not 
contract,  was  neither  more  nor  less  seared,  rather  it  seemed 
as  if  her  youth,  in  its  full  blossom,  was  slowly  turned  to 
stone  by  an  anguish  intolerable  because  it  was  barren.  She 
suffered  through  herself  and  for  herself.  How  could  it  end 
save  in  self -absorption  ?  Ugly  torturing  thoughts  probed  her 
conscience.  Candid  self-examination  pronounced  that  she 
was  double,  there  were  two  selves  within  her;  a  woman  who 
felt  and  a  woman  who  thought;  a  self  that  suffered  and  a 
self  that  would  fain  suffer  no  longer.  Her  mind  traveled 
back  to  the  joys  of  childish  days;  they  had  gone  by,  and  she 
had  never  known  how  happy  they  were.  Scenes  crowded  up 
in  her  memory  as  in  a  bright  mirror  glass,  to  demonstrate 
the  deception  of  a  marriage  which,  all  that  it  should  be  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  was  in  reality  so  wretched.  What  had 
the  delicate  pride  of  young  womanhood  done  for  her — the 
bliss  foregone,  the  sacrifices  made  to  the  world?  Everything 
in  her  expressed  love,  awaited  love ;  her  movements  still  were 
full  of  perfect  grace;  her  smile,  her  charm,  were  hers  as  be- 
fore; why?  she  asked  herself.  The  sense  of  her  own  youth 
and  physical  loveliness  no  more  affected  her  than  some  mean- 
ingless reiterated  sound.  Her  very  beauty  had  grown  in- 
tolerable to  her  as  a  useless  thing.  She  shrank  aghast  from 
the  thought  that  through  the  rest  of  life  she  must  remain 
an  incomplete  creature;  had  not  the  inner  self  lost  its  power 
of  receiving  impressions  with  that  zest,  that  exquisite  sense 
of  freshness  which  is  the  spring  of  so  much  of  life's  glad- 
ness ?  The  impressions  of  the  future  would  for  the  most  part 
be  effaced  as  soon  as  received,  and  many  of  the  thoughts 
which  once  would  have  moved  her  now  would  move  her  no 
more. 

After  the  childhood  of  the  creature  dawns  the  childhood  of 
the  heart;  but  this  second  infancy  was  over,  her  lover  had 
taken  it  down  with  him  into  the  grave.  The  longings  of 
youth  remained;  she  was  young  yet;  but  the  completeness  of 
youth  was  gone,  and  with  that  lost  completeness  the  whole 
value  and  savor  of  life  had  diminished  somewhat.  Should  she 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  79 

not  always  bear  within  her  the  seeds  of  sadness  and  mistrust, 
ready  to  grow  up  and  rob  emotion  of  its  springtide  of  fervor  ? 
Conscious  she  must  always  be  that  nothing  could  give  her 
now  the  happiness  so  longed  for,  that  seemed  so  fair  in  her 
dreams.  The  fire  from  heaven  that  sheds  abroad  its  light 
in  the  heart,  in  the  dawn  of  love,  had  been  quenched  in  tears, 
the  first  real  tears  which  she  had  shed;  henceforth  she  must 
always  suffer,  because  it  was  no  longer  in  her  power  to  be 
what  once  she  might  have  been.  This  is  a  belief  which  turns 
us  in  aversion  and  bitterness  of  spirit  from  any  proffered  new 
delight, 

Julie  had  come  to  look  at  life  from  the  point  of  view  of 
age  about  to  die.  Young  though  she  felt,  the  heavy  weight 
of  joyless  days  had  fallen  upon  her,  and  left  her  broken- 
spirited  and  old  before  her  time.  "With  a  despairing  cry,  she 
asked  the  world  what  it  could  give  her  in  exchange  for  the 
love  now  lost,  \>y  which  she  had  lived.  She  asked  herself 
whether  in  that  vanished  love,  so  chaste  and  pure,  her  will 
had  not  been  more  criminal  than  her  deeds,  and  chose 
to  believe  herself  guilty;  partly  to  affront  the  world,  partly 
for  her  own  consolation,  in  that  she  had  missed  the  close 
union  of  body  and  soul,  which  diminishes  the  pain  of  the  one 
who  is  left  behind  by  the  knowledge  that  once  it  has  known 
and  given  joy  to  the  full,  and  retains  within  itself  the  im- 
press of  that  which  is  no  more. 

Something  of  the  mortification  of  the  actress  cheated  of 
her  part  mingled  with  the  pain  which  thrilled  through  every 
fibre  of  her  heart  and  brain.  Her  nature  had  been  thwarted, 
her  vanity  wounded,  her  woman's  generosity  cheated  of  self- 
sacrifice.  Then,  when  she  had  raised  all  these  questions,  set 
vibrating  all  the  springs  in  those  different  phases  of  being 
which  we  distinguish  as  social,  moral,  and  physical,  her  ener- 
gies were  so  far  exhausted  and  relaxed  that  she  was  powerless 
to  grasp  a  single  thought  amid  the  chase  of  conflicting  ideas. 

Sometimes  as  the  mists  fell,  she  would  throw  her  window 
open,  and  would  stay  there,  motionless,  breathing  in  unheed- 
ingly  the  damp  earthy  scent  in  the  air,  her  mind  to  all  ap- 


80  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

pearance  an  unintelligent  blank,  for  the  ceaseless  burden  of 
sorrow  humming  in  her  brain  left  her  deaf  to  earth's  har- 
monies and  insensible  to  the  delights  of  thought. 

One  day,  towards  noon,  when  the  sun  shone  out  for  a  little, 
her  maid  came  in  without  a  summons. 

"This  is  the  fourth  time  that  M.  le  Cure  has  come  to  see 
Mme.  la  Marquise;  to-day  he  is  so  determined  about  it,  that 
we  did  not  know  what  to  tell  him." 

"He  has  come  to  ask  for  some  money  for  the  poor,  no 
doubt;  take  him  twenty-five  louis  from  me." 

The  woman  went  only  to  return. 

"M.  le  Cure1  will  not  take  the  money,  my  lady;  he  wants 
to  speak  to  you." 

"Then  let  him  come!"  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  with  an 
involuntary  shrug  which  augured  ill  for  the  priest's  recep- 
tion. Evidently  the  lady  meant  to  put  a  stop  to  persecution 
by  a  short  and  sharp  method. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  lost  her  mother  in  her  early  child- 
hood; and  as  a  natural  consequence  in  her  bringing-up,  she 
had  felt  the  influences  of  the  relaxed  notions  which  loosened 
the  hold  of  religion  upon  France  during  the  Eevolution. 
Piety  is  a  womanly  virtue  which  women  alone  can  really 
instil;  and  the  Marquise,  a  child  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
had  adopted  her  father's  creed  of  philosophism,  and  practised 
no  religious  observances.  A  priest,  to  her  way  of  thinking, 
was  a  civil  servant  of  very  doubtful  utility.  In  her  present 
position,  the  teaching  of  religion  could  only  poison  her 
wounds;  she  had,  moreover,  but  scanty  faith  in  the  lights  of 
country  cures,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  put  this  one  gently 
but  firmly  in  his  place,  and  to  rid  herself  of  him,  after  the 
manner  of  the  rich,  by  bestowing  a  benefit. 

At  first  sight  of  the  cure  the  Marquise  felt  no  inclination 
to  change  her  mind.  She  saw  before  her  a  stout,  rotund  little 
man,  with  a  ruddy,  wrinkled,  elderly  face,  which  awkwardly 
and  unsuccessfully  tried  to  smile.  His  bald,  quadrant-shaped 
forehead,  furrowed  by  intersecting  lines,  was  too  heavy  for 
the  rest  of  his  face,  which  seemed  to  be  dwarfed  by  it.  A 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  81 

fringe  of  scanty  white  hair  encircled  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  almost  reached  his  ears.  Yet  the  priest  looked  as  if  by 
nature  he  had  a  genial  disposition;  his  thick  lips,  his  slightly 
curved  nose,  his  chin,  which  vanished  in  a  double  fold  of 
wrinkles, — all  marked  him  out  as  a  man  who  took  cheerful 
views  of  life. 

At  first  the  Marquise  saw  nothing  but  these  salient  charac- 
teristics, but  at  the  first  word  she  was  struck  by  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  speaker's  voice.  Looking  at  him  more  closely,  she 
saw  that  the  eyes  under  the  grizzled  eyebrows  had  shed  tears, 
and  his  face,  turned  in  profile,  wore  so  sublime  an  impress 
of  sorrow,  that  the  Marquise  recognized  the  man  in  the  cure. 

"Madame  la  Marquise,  the  rich  only  come  within  our 
province  when  they  are  in  trouble.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  the 
troubles  of  a  young,  beautiful,  and  wealthy  married  woman, 
who  has  lost  neither  children  nor  relatives,  are  caused  by 
wounds  whose  pangs  religion  alone  can  soothe.  Your  soul  is 
in  danger,  madame.  I  am  not  speaking  now  of  the  hereafter 
which  awaits  us.  No,  I  am  not  in  the  confessional.  But  it 
is  my  duty,  is  it  not,  to  open  your  eyes  to  your  future  life 
.here  on  earth?  You  will  pardon  an  old  man,  will  you  not, 
for  importunity  which  has  your  own  happiness  for  its  object  ?" 

"There  is  no  more  happiness  for  me,  monsieur.  I  shall 
soon  be,  as  you  say,  in  your  province ;  but  it  will  be  for  ever." 

"Nay,  madame.  You  will  not  die  of  this  pain  which  lies 
heavy  upon  }^ou,  and  can  be  read  in  your  face.  If  you  had 
been  destined  to  die  of  it,  you  would  not  be  here  at  Saint- 
Lange.  A  definite  regret  is  not  so  deadly  as  hope  deferred. 
I  have  known  others  pass  through  more  intolerable  and  more 
awful  anguish,  and  yet  they  live." 

The  Marquise  looked  incredulous. 

"Madame,  I  know  a  man  whose  affliction  was  so  sore  that 
your  trouble  would  seem  to  you  to  be  light  compared  with 
his." 

Perhaps  the  long  solitary  hours  had  begun  to  hang  heavily ; 
perhaps  in  the  recesses  of  the  Marquise's  mind  lay  the  thought 
that  here  was  a  friendly  heart  to  whom  she  might  be  able 

VOL.  5—30 


82  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

to  pour  out  her  troubles.    However  it  was,  she  gave  the  cure" 
a  questioning  glance  which  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"Madame,"  he  continued,  "the  man  of  whom  I  tell  you 
had  but  three  children  left  of  a  once  large  family  circle. 
He  lost  his  parents,  his  daughter,  and  his  wife,  whom  he  dearly 
loved.  He  was  left  alone  at  last  on  the  little  farm  where  he 
had  lived  so  happily  for  so  long.  His  three  sons  were  in  the 
army,  and  each  of  the  lads  had  risen  in  proportion  to  his 
time  of  service.  During  the  Hundred  Days,  the  oldest  went 
into  the  Guard  with  a  colonel's  commission;  the  second  was 
a  major  in  the  artillery ;  the  youngest  a  major  in  a  regiment 

rof  dragoons.  Madame,  those  three  boys  loved  their  father  as 
much  as  he  loved  them.  If  you  but  knew  how  careless  young 
fellows  grow  of  home  ties  when  they  are  carried  away  by  the 
current  of  their  own  lives,  you  would  realize  from  this  one 
little  thing  how  warmly  they  loved  the  lonely  old  father,  who 
only  lived  in  and  for  them — never  a  week  passed  without  a 
letter  from  one  of  the  boys.  But  then  he  on  his  side  had 
never  been  weakly  indulgent,  to  lessen  their  respect  for  him; 
nor  unjustly  severe,  to  thwart  their  affection;  nor  apt  to 
grudge  sacrifices,  the  thing  that  estranges  children's  hearts. 
He  had  been  more  than  a  father;  he  had  been  a  brother  to 

•  them,  and  their  friend. 

"At  last  he  went  to  Paris  to  bid  them  good-bye  before  they 
set  out  -for  Belgium;  he  wished  to  see  that  they  had  good 
horses  and  all  that  they  needed.  And  so  they  went,  and  the 
father  returned  to  his  home  again.  Then  the  war  began. 
He  had  letters  from  Fleurus,  and  again  from  Ligny.  AH 
went  well.  Then  came  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  you  know 
the  rest.  France  was  plunged  into  mourning;  every  family 
waited  in  intense  anxiety  for  news.  You  may  imagine, 
madame,  how  the  old  man  waited  for  tidings,  in  anxiety  that 
knew  no  peace  nor  rest.  He  used  to  read  the  gazettes;  he 
went  to  the  coach  office  every  day.  One  evening  he  was  told 
that  the  colonel's  servant  had  come.  The  man  was  riding 
his  master's  horse — what  need  was  there  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions?— the  colonel  was  dead,  cut  in  two  by  a  shell.  Before 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  83 

the  evening  was  out  the  youngest  son's  servant  arrived — the 
youngest  had  died  on  the  eve  of  the  battle.  At  midnight 
came  a  gunner  with  tidings  of  the  death  of  the  last;  upon 
whom,  in  those  few  hours,  the  poor  father  had  centered  all 
his  life.  Madame,  they  all  had  fallen." 

After  a  pause  the  good  man  controlled  his  feelings,  and 
added  gently: 

"And  their  father  is  still  living,  madame.  He  realized 
that  if  God  had  left  him  on  earth,  he  was  bound  to  live  on 
and  suffer  on  earth;  but  he  took  refuge  in  the  sanctuary. 
What  could  he  be?" 

The  Marquise  looked  up  and  saw  the  cure's  face,  grown 
sublime  in  its  sorrow  and  resignation,  and  waited  for  him  to 
speak.  When  the  words  carne,  tears  broke  from  her. 

."A  priest,  madame;  consecrated  by  his  own  tears  pre- 
viously shed  at  the  foot  of  the  altar." 

Silence  prevailed  for  a  little.  The  Marquise  and  the  cure 
looked  out  at  the  foggy  landscape,  as  if  they  could  see  the 
figures  of  those  who  were  no  more. 

"Not  a  priest  in  a  city,  but  a  simple  country  cure,"  added 
he. 

"At  Saint-Lange,"  she  said,  drying  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  madame." 

Never  had  the  majesty  of  grief  seemed  so  great  to  Julie. 
The  two  words  sank  straight  into  her  heart  with  the  weight 
of  an  infinite  sorrow.  The  gentle,  sonorous  tones  troubled 
her  heart.  Ah !  that  full,  deep  voice,  charged  with  plangent 
vibration,  was  the  voice  of  one  who  had  suffered  indeed. 

"And  if  I  do  not  die,  monsieur,  what  will  become  of  me  ?" 
The  Marquise  spoke  almost  reverently. 

"Have  you  not  a  child,  madame?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  stiffly. 

The  cure  gave  her  such  a  glance  as  a  doctor  gives  a  patient 
whose  life  is  in  danger.  Then  he  determined  to  do  all  that 
in  him  lay  to  combat  the  evil  spirit  into  whose  clutches  she 
had  fallen. 

"We  must  live  on  with  our  sorrows — you  see  it  yourself, 


84  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

madame,  and  religion  alone  offers  us  real  consolation.  Will 
you  permit  me  to  come  again?— -to  speak  to  you  as  a  man 
who  can  sympathize  with  every  trouble,  a  man  about  whom 
there  is  nothing  very  alarming,  I  think?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,  come  back  again.  Thank  you  for  your 
thought  of  me." 

"Very  well,  madame;  then  I  shall  return  very  shortly." 

This  visit  relaxed  the  tension  of  soul,  as  it  were ;  the  heavy 
strain  of  grief  and  loneliness  had  been  almost  too  much  for 
the  Marquise's  strength.  The  priest's  visit  had  left  a  sooth- 
ing balm  in  her  heart,  his  words  thrilled  through  her  with 
healing  influence.  She  began  to  feel  something  of  a  prisoner's 
satisfaction,  when,  after  he  has  had  time  to  feel  his  utter 
loneliness  and  the  weight  of  his  chains,  he  hears  a  neighbor 
knocking  on  the  wall,  and  welcomes  the  sound  which  brings 
a  sense  of  human  fellowship.  Here  was  an  unhoped-for  confi- 
dant. But  this  feeling  did  not  last  for  long.  Soon  she  sank 
back  into  the  old  bitterness  of  spirit,  saying  to  herself,  as  the 
prisoner  might  say,  that  a  companion  in  misfortune  could 
neither  lighten  her  own  bondage  nor  her  future. 

In  the  first  visit  the  cure  had  feared  to  alarm  the  sus- 
ceptibilities of  self-absorbed  grief,  in  a  second  interview  he 
hoped  to  make  some  progress  towards  religion.  He  came  back 
again  two  days  later,  and  from  the  Marquise's  welcome  it  was 
plain  that  she  had  looked  forward  to  the  visit. 

"Well,  Mme.  la  Marquise,  have  you  given  a  little  thought 
to  the  great  mass  of  human  suffering  ?  Have  you  raised  your 
eyes  above  our  earth  and  seen  the  immensity  of  the  universe  ? 
— the  worlds  beyond  worlds  which  crush  our  vanity  into  in- 
significance, and  with  our  vanity  reduce  our  sorrows?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  she  said;  "I  cannot  rise  to  such  heights, 
our  social  laws  lie  too  heavily  upon  me,  and  rend  my  heart 
with  a  too  poignant  anguish.  And  laws  perhaps  are  less  cruel 
than  the  usages  of  the  world.  Ah !  the  world !" 

"Madame,  we  must  obey  both.  Law  is  the  doctrine,  and 
custom  the  practice  of  society." 

"Obey  society?"  cried  the  Marquise,  with  an  involuntary 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  85 

shudder.  "Eh !  monsieur,  it  is  the  source  of  all  our  woes. 
God  laid  down  no  law  to  make  us  miserable;  but  mankind, 
uniting  together  in  social  life,  have  perverted  God's  work. 
Civilization  deals  harder  measure  to  us  women  than  nature 
does.  Nature  imposes  upon  us  physical  suffering  which  you 
have  not  alleviated;  civilization  has  developed  in  us  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  you  cheat  continually.  Nature  exter- 
minates the  weak ;  you  condemn  them  to  live,  and  by  so  doing, 
consign  them  to  a  life  of  misery.  The  whole  weight  of  the 
burden  of  marriage,  an  institution  on  which  society  is  based, 
falls  upon  us;  for  the  man  liberty,  duties  for  the  woman. 
We  must  give  up  our  whole  lives  to  you,  you  are  only  bound 
to  give  us  a  few  moments  of  yours.  A  man,  in  fact,  makes 
a  choice,  while  we  blindly  submit.  Oh,  monsieur,  to  you  I  can 
speak  freely.  Marriage,  in  these  days,  seems  to  me  to  be 
legalized  prostitution.  This  is  the  cause  of  my  wretchedness. 
But  among  so  many  miserable  creatures  so  unhappily  yoked, 
I  alone  am  bound  to  be  silent,  I  alone  am  to  blame  for  my 
misery.  My  marriage  was  my  own  doing." 

She  stopped  short,  and  bitter  tears  fell  in  the  silence. 

"In  the  depths  of  my  wretchedness,  in  the  midst  of  this 
sea  of  distress,"  she  went  on,  "I  found  some  sands  on  which 
to  set  foot  and  suffer  at  leisure.  A  great  tempest  swept 
everything  away.  And  here  am  I,  helpless  and  alone,  too 
weak  to  cope  with  storms." 

"We  are  never  weak  while  God  is  with  us,"  said  the  priest. 
"And  if  your  cravings  for  affection  cannot  be  satisfied  here 
on  earth,  have  you  no  duties  to  perform  ?" 

"Duties  continually!"  she  exclaimed,  with  something  of 
impatience  in  her  tone.  "But  where  for  me  are  the  senti- 
ments which  give  us  strength  to  perform  them?  Nothing 
from  nothing,  nothing  for  nothing, — this,  monsieur,  is  one  of 
the  most  inexorable  laws  of  nature,  physical  or  spiritual. 
Would  you  have  these  trees  break  into  leaf  without  the  sap 
which  swells  the  buds?  It  is  the  same  with  our  human  na- 
ture ;  and  in  me  the  sap  is  dried  up  at  its  source." 

"I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  religious  sentiments 


86  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

of  which  resignation  is  born,"  said  the  cure.,  "but  of  mother- 
hood, madamc,  surely — 

"Stop,  monsieur !"  said  the  Marquise,  "with  you  I  will  be 
sincere.  Alas !  in  future  I  can  be  sincere  with  no  one ;  I 
am  condemned  to  falsehood.  The  world  requires  continual 
grimaces,  and  we  are  bidden  to  obey  its  conventions  if  we 
would  escape  reproach.  There  are  two  kinds  of  motherhood, 
monsieur;  once  I  knew  nothing  of  such  distinctions,  but  I 
know  them  now.  Only  half  of  me  has  become  a  mother;  it 
were  better  for  me  if  I  had  not  been  a  mother  at  all.  Helene 
is  not  his  child !  Oh !  do  not  start.  At  Saint-Lange  there  are 
volcanic  depths  whence  come  lurid 'gleams  of  light  and  earth- 
quake shocks  to  shake  the  fragile  edifices  of  laws  not  based 
on  nature.  I  have  borne  a  child,  that  is  enough,  I  am  a 
mother  in  the  eye  of  the  law.  But  you,  monsieur,  with  your 
delicately  compassionate  soul,  can  perhaps  understand  this 
cry  from  an  unhappy  woman  who  has  suffered  no  lying  illu- 
sions to  enter  her  heart.  God  will  judge  me,  but  surely  I 
have  only  obeyed  His  laws  by  giving  way  to  the  affections 
which  He  Himself  set  in  me,  and  this  I  have  learned  from 
my  own  soul. — What  is  a  child,  monsieur,  but  the  image  of 
two  beings,  the  fruit  of  two  sentiments  spontaneously 
blended?  Unless  it  is  owned  by  every  fibre  of  the  body,  as 
by  every  chord  of  tenderness  in  the  heart;  unless  it  recalls 
the  bliss  of  love,  the  hours,  the  places  where  two  creatures 
were  happy,  their  words  that  overflowed  with  the  music  of 
humanit}r,  and  their  sweet  imaginings,  that  child  is  an  incom- 
plete creation.  Yes,  those  two  should  find  the  poetic  dreams 
of  their  intimate  double  life  realized  in  their  child  as  in  an 
exquisite  miniature;  it  should  be  for  them  a  never- failing 
spring  of  emotion,  implying  their  whole  past  and  their  whole 
future. 

"My  poor  little  Helene  is  her  father's  child,  the  offspring 
of  duty  and  of  chance.  In  me  she  finds  nothing  but  the  af- 
fection of  instinct,  the  woman's  natural  compassion  for  the 
child  of  her  womb.  Socially  speaking,  I  am  above  reproach. 
Have  I  not  sacrificed  my  life  and  my  happiness  to  my  child  ? 


A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY  87 

Her  cries  go  to  my  heart ;  if  she  were  to  fall  into  the  water, 
I  should  spring  to  save  her,  but  she  is  not  in  my  heart. 

"Ah!  love  set  me  dreaming  of  a  motherhood  far  greater 
and  more  complete.  In  a  vanished  dream  I  held  in  my  arms 
a  child  conceived  in  desire  before  it  was  begotten,  the  ex- 
quisite flower  of  life  that  blossoms  in  the  soul  before  it  sees 
the  light  of  day.  I  am  Helene's  mother  only  in  the  sense 
that  I  brought  her  forth.  When  she  needs  me  no  longer, 
there  will  be  an  end  of  my  motherhood;  with  the  extinction 
of  the  cause,  the  effects  will  cease.  If  it  is  a  woman's  adorable 
prerogative  that  her  motherhood  may  last  through  her  child's 
life,  surely  that  divine  persistence  of  sentiment  is  due  to  the 
far-reaching  glory  of  the  conception  of  the  soul?  Unless  a 
child-  has  lain  wrapped  about  from  life's  first  beginnings  by 
the  mother's  soul,  the  instinct  of  motherhood  dies  in  her  as 
in  the  animals.  This  is  true;  I  feel  that  it  is  true.  As 
my  poor  little  one  grows  older,  my  heart  closes.  My  sacrifices 
have  driven  us  apart.  And  yet  I  know,  monsieur,  that  to 
another  child  my  heart  would  have  gone  out  in  inexhaustible 
love;  for  that  other  I  should  not  have  known  what  sacrifice 
meant,  all  had  been  delight.  In  this,  monsieur,  my  instincts 
are  stronger  than  reason,  stronger  than  religion  or  all  else 
in  me.  Does  the  woman  who  is  neither  wife  nor  mother  sin 
in  wishing  to  die  when,  for  her  misfortune,  she  has  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  infinite  beauty  of  love,  the  limitless  joy  of 
motherhood  ?  What  can  become  of  her  ?  /  can  tell  you  what 
she  feels.  I  cannot  put  that  memory  from  me  so  resolutely 
but  that  a  hundred  times,  night  and  day,  visions  of  a  happi- 
ness, greater  it  may  be  than  the  reality,  rise  before  me,  fol- 
lowed by  a  shudder  which  shakes  brain  and  heart  and  body. 
Before  these  cruel  visions,  my  feelings  and  thoughts  grow 
colorless,  and  I  ask  myself,  'WThat  would  my  life  have  been 
if ?'" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

"There  you  see  the  depths  of  my  heart !"  she  continued. 
"For  his  child  I  could  have  acquiesced  in  any  lot  however 
dreadful.  He  who  died,  bearing  the  burden  of  the  sins  of  the 


88  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

world,  will  forgive  this  thought  of  which  I  am  dying;  but 
the  world,  I  know,  is  merciless.  In  its  ears  my  words  are 
blasphemies ;  I  am  outraging  all  its  codes.  Oh !  that  I  could 
wage  war  against  this  world  and  break  down  and  refashion 
its  laws  and  traditions !  Has  it  not  turned  all  my  thoughts, 
and  feelings,  and  longings,  and  hopes,  and  every  fibre  in  me 
into  so  many  sources  of  pain?  Spoiled  my  future,  present, 
and  past  ?  For  me  the  daylight  is  full  of  gloom,  my  thoughts 
pierce  me  like  a  sword,  my  child  is  and  is  not. 

"Oh,  when  Helene  speaks  to  me,  I  wish  that  her  voice  were 
different,  when  she  looks  into  my  face  I  wish  that  she  had 
other  eyes.  She  constantly  keeps  me  in  mind  of  all  that 
should  have  been  and  is  not.  I  cannot  bear  to  have  her  near 
me.  I  smile  at  her,  1  try  to  make  up  to  her  for  the  real 
affection  of  which  she  is  defrauded.  I  am  wretched,  mon- 
sieur, too  wretched  to  live.  And  I  am  supposed  to  be  a  pat- 
tern wife.  And  I  have  committed  no  sins.  And  I  am  re- 
spected !  I  have  fought  down  forbidden  love  which  sprang 
up  at  unawares  within  me;  but  if  I  have  kept  the  letter  of 
the  law,  have  I  kept  it  in  my  heart?  There  has  never  been 
but  one  here,"  she  said,  laying  her  right  hand  on  her  breast, 
"one  and  no  other;  and  my  child  feels  it.  Certain  looks  and 
tones  and  gestures  mould  a  child's  nature,  and  my  poor  little 
one  feels  no  thrill  in  the  arm  I  put  about  her,  no  tremor 
comes  into  my  voice,  no  softness  into  my  eyes  when  I  speak 
to  her  or  take  her  up.  She  looks  at  me,  and  I  cannot  endure 
the  reproach  in  her  eyes.  There  are  times  when  I  shudder 
to  think  that  some  day  she  may  be  my  judge  and  condemn 
her  mother  unheard.  Heaven  grant  that  hate  may  not  grow 
up  between  us !  Ah !  God  in  heaven,  rather  let  the  tomb  open 
for  me,  rather  let  me  end  my  days  here  at  Saint-Lange ! — I 
want  to  go  back  to  the  world  where  I  shall  find  my  other  soul 
and  become  wholly  a  mother.  Ah!  forgive  me,  sir,  I  am 
mad.  Those  words  were  choking  me;  now  they  are  spoken. 
Ah !  you  are  weeping  too !  You  will  not  despise  me 

She  heard  the  child  come  in  from  a  walk.  "Helene,  my 
child,  come  here !"  she  called.  The  words  sounded  like  a  cry 
of  despair. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  89 

The  little  girl  ran  in,  laughing  and  calling  to  her  mother 
to  see  a  butterfly  which  she  had  caught;  but  at  the  sight  of 
that  mother's  tears  she  grew  quiet  of  a  sudden,  and  went  up 
close,  and  received  a  kiss  on  her  forehead. 

"She  will  be  very  beautiful  some  day,"  said  the  priest. 

"She  is  her  father's  child,"  said  the  Marquise,  kissing  the 
little  one  with  eager  warmth,  as  if  she  meant  to  pay  a  debt 
of  affection  or  to  extinguish  some  feeling  of  remorse. 

"How  hot  you  are,  mamma  !" 

"There,  go  away,  my  angel,"  said  the  Marquise. 

The  child  went.  She  did  not  seem  at  all  sorry  to  go;  she 
did  not  look  back;  glad  perhaps  to  escape  from  a  sad  face, 
and  instinctively  comprehending  already  an  antagonism  of 
feeling  in  its  expression.  A  mother's  love  finds  language  in 
smiles;  they  are  a  part  of  the  divine  right  of  motherhood. 
The  Marquise  could  not  smile.  She  flushed  red  as  she  felt 
the  cure's  eyes.  She  had  hoped  to  act  a  mother's  part  before 
him,  but  neither  she  nor  her  child  could  deceive  him.  And, 
indeed,  when  a  woman  loves  sincerely,  in  the  kiss  she  gives 
there  is  a  divine  honey ;  it  is  as  if  a  soul  were  breathed  forth 
in  the  caress,  a  subtle  flame  of  fire  which  brings  warmth  to 
the  heart ;  the  kiss  that  lacks  this  delicious  unction  is  meagre 
and  formal.  The  priest  had  felt  the  difference.  He  could 
fathom  the  depths  that  lie  between  the  motherhood  of  the 
flesh  and  the  motherhood  of  the  heart.  He  gave  the  Marquise 
a  keen,  scrutinizing  glance,  then  he  said : 

"You  are  right,  madame;  it  would  be  better  for  you  if 
you  were  dead " 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  "then  you  know  all  my  misery ;  I  see 
you  do  if,  Christian  priest  as  you  are,  you  can  guess  my  de- 
termination to  die  and  sanction  it.  Yes,  I  meant  to  die, 
but  I  have  lacked  the  courage.  The  spirit  was  strong,  but 
the  flesh  was  weak,  and  when  my  hand  did  not  tremble,  the 
spirit  within  me  wavered. 

"I  do  not  know  the  reason  of  these  inner  struggles,  and 
alternations.  I  am  very  pitiably  a  woman  no  doubt,  weak  in 
my  will,  strong  only  to  love.  Oh,  I  despise  myself.  At  night, 


90  A   WOMAN   OF   THIRTY 

when  all  my  household  was  asleep,  I  would  go  out  bravely 
as  far  as  the  lake;  but  when  I  stood  on  the  brink,  my  cow- 
ardice shrank  from  self-destruction.  To  you  I  will  confess 
my  weakness.  When  I  lay  in  my  bed,  again,  shame  would 
come  over  me,  and  courage  would  come  back.  Once  I  took 
a  dose  of  laudanum ;  I ,  was  ill,  but  I  did  not  die.  I  thought 
I  had  emptied  the  phial,  but  I  had  only  taken  half  the  dose." 

"You  are  lost,  madame,"  the  cure  said  gravely,  with  tears 
in  his  voice.  "You  will  go  back  into  the  world,  and  you  will 
deceive  the  world.  You  will  seek  and  find  a  compensation 
(as  you  imagine  it  to  be)  for  your  woes;  then  will  come  a 
day  of  reckoning  for  your  pleasures 

"Do  you  think,"  she  cried,  "that  /  shall  bestow  the  last, 
the  most  precious  treasures  of  my  heart  upon  the  first  base,  im- 
postor who  can  play  the  comedy  of  passion  ?  That  I  would  pol- 
lute my  life  for  a  moment  of  doubtful  pleasure?  No ;  the  flame 
which  shall  consume  my  soul  shall  be  love,  and  nothing  but 
love.  All  men,  monsieur,  have  the  senses  of  their  sex,  but 
not  all  have  the  man's  soul  which  satisfies  all  the  require- 
ments of  our  nature,  drawing  out  the  melodious  harmony 
which  never  breaks  forth  save  in  response  to  the  pressure  of 
feeling.  Such  a  soul  is  not  found  twice  in  our  lifetime. 
The  future  that  lies  before  me  is  hideous;  I  know  it.'  A 
woman  is  nothing  without  love;  beauty  is  nothing  without 
pleasure.  And  even  if  happiness  were  offered  to  me  a  second 
time,  would  not  the  world  frown  upon  it  ?  I  owe  my  daughter 
an  honored  mother.  Oh !  I  am  condemned  to  live  in  an  iron 
circle,  from  which  there  is  but  one  shameful  way  of  escape. 
The  round  of  family  duties,  a  thankless  and  irksome  task, 
is  in  store  for  me.  I  shall  curse  life ;  but  my  child  shall  have 
at  least  a  fair  semblance  of  a  mother.  I  will  give  her  treasures 
of  virtue  for  the  treasures  of  love  of  which  I  defraud  her. 

"I  have  not  even  the  mother's  desire  to  live  to  enjoy  her 
child's  happiness.  I  have  no  belief  in  happiness.  What  will 
Helene's  fate  be?  My  own,  beyond  doubt.  How  can  a 
mother  insure  that  the  man  to  whom  she  gives  her  daughter 
will  be  the  husband  of  her  heart?  You  pour  scorn  on  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  91 

miserable  creatures  who  sell  themselves  for  a  few  coins 
to  any  passer-by,  though  want  and  hunger  absolve  the  brief 
union;  while  another  union,  horrible  for  quite  other  reasons, 
is  tolerated,  na}r,  encouraged,  by  society,  and  a  young  and 
innocent  girl  is  married  to  a  man  whom  she  has  only  met 
occasionally  during  the  previous  three  months.  She  is  sold 
for  her  whole  lifetime.  It  is  true  that  the  price  is  high! 
If  you  allow  her  no  compensation  for  her  sorrows,  you  might 
at  least  respect  her ;  but  no,  the  most  virtuous  of  women  can- 
not escape  calumny.  This  is  our  fate  in  its  double  aspect. 
Open  prostitution  and  shame;  secret  prostitution  and  un- 
happiness.  As  for  the  poor,  portionless  girls,  they  may  die 
or  go  mad,  without  a  soul  to  pity  them.  Beauty  and  virtue 
are  not  marketable  in  the  bazaar  where  souls  and  bodies  are 
bought  and  sold — in  the  den  of  selfishness  which  you  call 
society.  Why  not  disinherit  daughters?  Then,  at  least,  you 
might  fulfil  one  of  the  laws  of  nature,  and  guided  by  your 
own  inclinations,  choose  your  companions." 

"Madame,  from  your  talk  it  is  clear  to  me  that  neither  the 
spirit  of  family  nor  the  sense  of  religion  appeals  to  you. 
Why  should  you  hesitate  between  the  claims  of  the  social 
selfishness  which  irritates  you,  and  the  purely  personal  selfish- 
ness which  craves  satisfactions " 

"The  family,  monsieur — does  such  a  thing  exist?  I  de- 
cline to  recognize  as  a  family  a  knot  of  individuals  bidden 
by  society  to  divide  the  property  after  the  death  of  father 
and  mother,  and  to  go  their  separate  ways.  A  family  means 
a  temporary  association  of  persons  brought  together  by  no 
will  of  their  own,  dissolved  at  once  by  death.  Our  laws  have 
broken  up  homes  and  estates,  and  the  old  family  tradition 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation.  I  see  nothing 
but  wreck  and  ruin  about  me." 

"Madame,  you  will  only  return  to  God  when  His  hand 
has  been  heavy  upon  you,  and  I  pray  that  you  have  time 
enough  given  to  you  in  which  to  make  your  peace  with  Him. 
Instead  of  looking  to  heaven  for  comfort,  you  are  fixing  your 
eyes  on  earth.  Philosophism  and  personal  interest  have  in- 


92  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

vaded  your  heart ;  like  the  children  of  the  sceptical  eighteenth 
century,  you  are  deaf  to  the  voice  of  religion.  The  pleasures 
of  this  life  bring  nothing  but  misery.  You  are  about  to  make 
an  exchange  of  sorrows,  that  is  all." 

She  smiled  bitterly. 

"I  will  falsify  your  predictions,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be 
faithful  to  him  who  died  for  me." 

"Sorrow,"  he  answered,  "is  not  likely  to  live  long  save  in 
souls  disciplined  by  religion,"  and  he  lowered  his  eyes  re- 
spectfully lest  the  Marquise  should  read  his  doubts  in  them. 
The  energy  of  her  outburst  had  grieved  him.  He  had  seen 
the  self  that  lurked  beneath  so  many  forms,  and  despaired  of 
softening  a  heart  which  affliction  seemed  to  sear.  The  divine 
Sower's  seed  could  not  take  root  in  such  a  soil,  and  His 
gentle  voice  was  drowned  by  the  clamorous  outcry  of  self- 
pity.  Yet  the  good  man  returned  again  and  again  with  an 
apostle's  earnest  persistence,  brought  back  by  a  hope  of  lead- 
ing so  noble  and  proud  a  soul  to  God;  until  the  day  when 
he  made  the  discovery  that  the  Marquise  only  cared  to  talk 
with  him  because  it  was  sweet  to  speak  of  him  who  was  no 
more.  He  would  not  lower  his  ministry  by  condoning  her 
passion,  and  confined  the  conversation  more  and  more  to 
generalities  and  commonplaces. 

Spring  came,  and  with  the  spring  the  Marquise  found  dis- 
traction from  her  deep  melancholy.  She  busied  herself  for 
lack  of  other  occupation  with  her  estate,  making  improve- 
ments for  amusement. 

In  October  she  left  the  old  chateau.  In  the  life  of  leisure 
at  Saint-Lange  she  had  recovered  from  her  grief  and  grown 
fair  and  fresh.  Her  grief  had  been  violent  at  first  in  its 
course,  as  the  quoit  hurled  forth  with  all  the  player's  strength, 
and  like  the  quoit  after  many  oscillations,  each  feebler  than 
the  last,  it  had  slackened  into  melancholy.  Melancholy  is 
made  up  of  a  succession  of  such  oscillations,  the  first  touch- 
ing upon  despair,  the  last  on  the  border  between  pain  and 
pleasure;  in  youth,  it  is  the  twilight  of  dawn;  in  age,  the 
dusk  of  night. 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  93 

As  the  Marquise  drove  through  the  village  in  her  travel- 
ing carriage,  she  met  the  cure  on  his  way  back  from  the 
church.  She  bowed  in  response  to  his  farewell  greeting,  but 
it  was  with  lowered  eyes  and  averted  face.  She  did  not  wish 
to  see  him  again.  The  village  cure  had  judged  this  poor 
Diana  of  Ephesus  only  too  well. 


III. 

AT  THIRTY  YEARS 

MADAME  FIRMIANI  was  giving  a  ball.  M.  Charles  de  Vande- 
nesse,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  the  bearer  of  one  of 
those  historic  names  which,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  legisla- 
tion, are  always  associated  with  the  glory  of  France,  had 
received  letters  of  introduction  to  some  of  the  great  lady's 
friends  in  Naples,  and  had  come  to  thank  the  hostess  and 
to  take  his  leave. 

Vandenesse  had  already  acquitted  himself  creditably  on 
several  diplomatic  missions;  and  now  that  he  had  received 
an  appointment  as  attache  to  a  plenipotentiary  at  the  Con- 
gress of  Laybach,  he  wished  to  take  advantage  of  the  op- 
portunity to  make  some  study  of  Italy  on  the  way.  This  ball 
was  a  sort  of  farewell  to  Paris  and  its  amusements  and  its 
rapid  whirl  of  life,  to  the  great  eddying  intellectual  centre 
and  maelstrom  of  pleasure;  and  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  be 
borne  along  by  the  current  of  this  sufficiently  slandered  great 
city  of  Paris.  Yet  Charles  de  Vandenesse  had  little  to  regret, 
accustomed  as  he  had  been  for  the  past  three  years  to  salute 
European  capitals  and  turn  his  back  upon  them  at  the  capri- 
cious bidding  of  a  diplomatist's  destiny.  Women  no  longer 
made  any  impression  upon  him;  perhaps  he  thought  that  a 
real  passion  would  play  too  large  a  part  in  a  diplomatist's 
life ;  or  perhaps  that  the  paltry  amusements  of  frivolity  were 
too  empty  for  a  man  of  strong  character.  We  all  of  us  have 


M  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

huge  claims  to  strength  of  character.  There  is  no  man  in 
France,  be  he  never  so  ordinary  a  member  of  the  rank  and 
file  of  humanity,  that  will  waive  pretensions  to  something  be- 
yond mere  cleverness. 

Charles,  young  though  he  was — he  was  scarcely  turned 
thirty — looked  at  life  with  a  philosophic  mind,  concerning 
himself  with  theories  and  means  and  ends,  while  other  men 
of  his  age  were  thinking  of  pleasure,  sentiments,  and  the  like 
illusions.  He  forced  back  into  some  inner  depth  the  gene- 
rosity and  enthusiasms  of  youth,  and  by  nature  he  was  gener- 
ous. He  tried  hard  to  be  cool  and  calculating,  to  coin  the, 
fund  of  wealth  which  chanced  to  be  in  his  nature  into  gra- 
cious manners,  and  courtesy,  and  .  attractive  arts ;  'tis  the 
proper  .task  of  an  ambitious  man,  to  play  a  sorry  part  to 
gain  "a  good  position,"  as  we  call  it  in  modern  days. 

He  had  been  dancing,  and  now  he  gave  a  farewell  glance 
over  the  rooms,  to  carry  away  a  distinct  impression  of  the 
ball,  moved,  doubtless,  to  some  extent  by  the  feeling  which 
prompts  a  theatre-goer  to  stay  in  his  box  to  see  the  final 
tableau  before  the  curtain  falls.  But  M.  de  Vandenesse  had 
another  reason  for  his  survey.  He  gazed  curiously  at  the 
scene  before  him,  so  French  in  character  and  in  movement, 
seeking  to  carry  away  a  picture  of  the  light  and  laughter  and 
the  faces  at  this  Parisian  fete,  to  compare  with  novel  faces 
and  picturesque  surroundings  awaiting  him  at  Naples,  where 
he  meant  to  spend  a  few  days  before  presenting  himself  at  his 
post.  He  seemed  to  be  drawing  the  comparison  now  between 
this  France  so  variable,  changing  even  as  you  study  her,  with 
the  manners  and  aspects  of  that  other  land  known  to  him  as 
yet  only  by  contradictory  hearsay  tales  or  books  of  travel,  for 
the  most  part  unsatisfactory.  Thoughts  of  a  somewhat 
poetical  cast,  albeit  hackneyed  and  trite  to  our  modern  ideas, 
crossed  his  brain,  in  response  to  some  longing  of  which,  per- 
haps, he  himself  was  hardly  conscious,  a  desire  in  the  depths 
of  a  heart  fastidious  rather  than  jaded,  vacant  rather  than 
seared. 

"These  are  the  wealthiest  and  most  fashionable  women  and 


A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY  95 

the  greatest  ladies  in  Paris,"  he  Said  to  himself.  "These  are 
the  great  men  of  the  day,  great  orators  and  men  of  letters, 
great  names  and  titles;  artists  and  men  in  power;  and  yet  in 
it  all  it  seems  to  me  as  if  there  were  nothing  but  petty  in- 
trigues and  still-born  loves,  meaningless  smiles  and  causeless 
scorn,  eyes  lighted  by  no  flame  within,  brain-power  in  abun- 
dance running  aimlessly  to  waste.  All  those  pink-and-white 
faces  are  here  not  so  much  for  enjoyment,  as  to  escape  from 
dulness.  None  of  the  emotion  is  genuine.  If  you  ask  for 
nothing  but  court  feathers  properly  adjusted,  fresh  gauzes 
and  pretty  toilettes  and  fragile,  fair  women,  if  you  desire 
simply  to  skim  the  surface  of  life,  here  is  your  world  for  you. 
Be  content  with  meaningless  phrases  and  fascinating  simpers, 
and  do  not  ask  for  real  feeling.  For  my  own  part,  I  abhor 
the  stale  intrigues  which  end  in  sub-prefectures  and  receiver- 
generals'  places  and  marriages;  or,  if  love  comes  into  the 
question,  in  stealthy  compromises,  so  ashamed  are  we  of  the 
mere  semblance  of  passion.  Not  a  single  one  of  all  these  elo- 
quent faces  tells  you  of  a  soul,  a  soul  wholly  absorbed  by  one 
idea  as  by  remorse.  Eegrets  and  misfortune  go  about  shame- 
facedly clad  in  jests.  There  is  not  one  woman  here  whose  re- 
sistance I  should  care  to  overcome,  not  one  who  could  drag 
you  down  to  the  pit.  Where  will  you  find  energy  in  Paris? 
A  poniard  here  is  a  curious  toy  to  hang  from  a  gilt  nail,  in 
a  picturesque  sheath  to  match.  The  women,  the  brains,  and 
hearts  of  Paris  are  all  on  a  par.  There  is  no  passion  left, 
because  we  have  no  individuality.  High  birth  and  intellect 
and  fortune  are  all  reduced  to  one  level ;  we  all  have  taken  to 
the  uniform  black  coat  by  way  of  mourning  for  a  dead  France. 
There  is  no  love  between  equals.  Between  two  lovers  there 
should  be  differences  to  efface,  wide  gulfs  to  fill.  The  charm 
of  love  fled  from  us  in  1789.  Our  dulness  and  our  humdrum 
lives  are  the  outcome  of  the  political  system.  Italy  at  any  rate 
is  the  land  of  sharp  contrasts.  Woman  there  is  a  malevolent 
animal,  a  dangerous  unreasoning  siren,  guided  only  by  her 
tastes  and  appetites,  a  creature  no  more  to  be  trusted  than  a 
tiger " 


96  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

Mme.  Firmiani  here  came  up  to  interrupt  this  soliloquy 
made  up  of  vague,  conflicting,  and  fragmentary  thoughts 
which  cannot  be  reproduced  in  words.  The  whole  charm  of 
such  musing  lies  in  its  vagueness — what  is  it  but  a  sort  of 
mental  haze? 

"I  want  to  introduce  you  to  some  one  who  has  the  greatest 
wish  to  make  your  acquaintance,  after  all  that  she  has  heard 
of  you,"  said  the  lady,  taking  his  arm. 

She  brought  him  into  the  next  room,  and  with  such  a 
smile  and  glance  as  a  Parisienne  alone  can  give,  she  indicated 
a  woman  sitting  by  the  hearth. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  the  Comte  de  Vandenesse  asked  quickly. 

"You  have  heard  her  name  more  than  once  coupled  with 
praise  or  blame.  She  is  a  woman  who  lives  in  seclusion — a 
perfect  mystery." 

"Oh !  if  ever  you  have  been  merciful  in  your  life,  for  pity's 
sake  tell  me  her  name." 

"She  is  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont." 

"I  will  take  lessons  from  her;  she  has  managed  to  make  a 
peer  of  France  of  that  eminently  ordinary  person  her  hus- 
band, and  a  dullard  into  a  power  in  the  land.  But,  pray  tell 
me  this,  did  Lord  Grenville  die  for  her  sake,  do  you  think,  as 
some  women  say?" 

"Possibly.  Since  that  adventure,  real  or  imaginary,  she  is 
very  much  changed,  poor  thing !  She  has  not  gone  into  so- 
ciety since.  Four  years  of  constancy — that  is  something  in 

Paris.  If  she  is  here  to-night "  Here  Mme.  Firmiani 

broke  off,  adding  with  a  mysterious  expression,  "I  am  for- 
getting that  I  must  say  nothing.  Go  and  talk  with  her." 

For  a  moment  Charles  stood  motionless,  leaning  lightly 
against  the  frame  of  the  doorway,  wholly  absorbed  in  his 
scrutiny  of  a  woman  who  had  become  famous,  no  one  exactly 
knew  how  or  why.  Such  curious  anomalies  are  frequent 
enough  in  the  world.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  reputation  was 
certainly  no  more  extraordinary  than  plenty  of  other  great 
reputations.  There  are  men  who  are  always  in  travail  of  some 
great  work  which  never  sees  the  light,  statisticians  held  to 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  97 

be  profound  on  the  score  of  calculations  which  they  take  very 
good  care  not  to  publish,  politicians  who  live  on  a  newspaper 
article,  men  of  letters  and  artists  whose  performances  are 
never  given  to  the  world,  men  of  science  who  pass  current 
among  those  who  know  nothing  of  science,  much  as  Sganarelle 
is  a  Latinist  for  those  who  know  no  Latin ;  there  are  the  men 
who  are  allowed  by  general  consent  to  possess  a  peculiar  ca- 
pacity for  some  one  thing,  be  it  for  the  direction  of  arts,  or 
for  the  conduct  of  an  important  mission.  The  admirable 
phrase,  "A  man  with  a  special  subject,"  might  have  been  in- 
vented on  purpose  for  these  acephalous  species  in  the  domain 
of  literature  and  politics. 

Charles  gazed  longer  than  he  intended.  He  was  vexed  with 
himself  for  feeling  so  strongly  interested ;  it  is  true,  however, 
that  the  lady's  appearance  was  a  refutation  of  the  young 
man's  ballroom  generalizations. 

The  Marquise  had  reached  her  thirtieth  year.  She  was 
beautiful  in  spite  of  her  fragile  form  and  extremely  delicate 
look.  Her  greatest  charm  lay  in  her  still  face,  revealing  un- 
fathomed  depths  of  soul.  Some  haunting,  ever-present 
thought  veiled,  as  it  were,  the  full  brilliance  of  eyes  which 
told  of  a  fevered  life  and  boundless  resignation.  So  seldom 
did  she  raise  the  eyelids  soberly  downcast,  and  so  listless  were 
her  glances,  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  fire  in  her  eyes 
were  reserved  for  some  occult  contemplation.  Any  man  of 
genius  and  feeling  must  have  felt  strangely  attracted  by  her 
gentleness  and  silence.  If  the  mind  sought  to  explain  the 
mysterious  problem  of  a  constant  inward  turning  from  the 
present  to  the  past,  the  soul  was  no  less  interested  in  initiat- 
ing itself  into  the  secrets  of  a  heart  proud  in  some  sort  of 
its  anguish.  Everything  about  her,  moreover,  was  in  keep- 
ing with  these  thoughts  which  she  inspired.  Like  almost  all 
women  who  have  very  long  hair,  she  was  very  pale  and  per- 
fectly white.  The  marvelous  fineness  of  her  skin  (that  almost 
unerring  sign)  indicated  a  quick  sensibility  which  could  be 
seen  yet  more  unmistakably  in  her  features;  there  was  the 
same  minute  and  wonderful  delicacy  of  finish  in  them  that 
VOL.  5 — 31 


98  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

the  Chinese  artist  gives  to  his  fantastic  figures.  Perhaps  her 
neck  was  rather  too  long,  but  such  necks  belong  to  the  most 
graceful  type,  and  suggest  vague  affinities  between  a  woman's 
head  and  the  magnetic  curves  of  the  serpent.  Leave  not  a 
single  one  of  the  thousand  signs  and  tokens  by  which  the 
most  inscrutable  character  betrays  itself  to  an  observer  of 
human  nature,  he  has  but  to  watch  carefully  the  little  move- 
ments of  a  woman's  head,  the  ever-varying  expressive  turns 
and  curves  of  her  neck  and  throat,  to  read  her  nature. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  dress  harmonized  with  the  haunting 
thought  that  informed  the  whole  woman.  Her  hair  was 
gathered  up  into  a  tall  coronet  of  broad  plaits,  without  orna- 
ment of  any  kind;  she  seemed  to  have  bidden  farewell  for 
ever  to  elaborate  toilettes.  Xor  were  any  of  the  small  arts 
of  coquetry  which  spoil  so  many  women  to  be  detected  in  her. 
Perhaps  her  bodice,  modest  though  it  was,  did  not  altogether 
conceal  the  dainty  grace  of  her  figure,  perhaps,  too,  her  gown 
looked  rich  from  the  extreme  distinction  of  its  fashion;  and 
if  it  is  permissible  to  look  for  expression  in  the  arrangement 
of  stuffs,  surely  those  numerous  straight  folds  invested  her 
with  a  great  dignity.  There  may  have  been  some  lingering 
trace  of  the  indelible  feminine  foible  in  the  minute  care  be- 
stowed upon  her  hand  and  foot;  yet,  if  she  allowed  them  to 
be  seen  with  some  pleasure,  it  would  have  tasked  the  utmost 
malice  of  a  rival  to  discover  any  affectation  in  her  gestures, 
so  natural  did  they  seem,  so  much  a  part  of  old  childish 
habit,  that  her  careless  grace  absolved  this  vestige  of  vanity. 

All  these  little  characteristics,  the  nameless  trifles  which 
combine  to  make  up  the  sum  of  a  woman's  prettiness  or  ugli- 
ness, her  charm  or  lack  of  charm,  can  only  be  indicated,  when, 
as  with  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  a  personality  dominates  and  gives 
coherence  to  the  details,  informing  them,  blending  them  all 
in  an  exquisite  whole.  Her  manner  was  perfectly  in  accord 
with  her  style  of  beauty  and  her  dress.  Only  to  certain 
women  at  a  certain  age  is  it  given  to  put  language  into  their 
attitude.  Is  it  joy  or  is  it  sorrow  that  teaches  a  woman  of 
thirty  the  secret  of  that  eloquence  of  carriage,  so  that  she 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  99 

must  always  remain  an  enigma  which  each  interprets  by  the 
aid  of  his  hopes,  desires,  or  theories? 

The  way  in  which  the  Marquise  leaned  both  elbows  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair,  the  toying  of  her  interclasped  fingers, 
the  curve  of  her  throat,  the  indolent  lines  of  her  languid  but 
lissome  body  as  she  lay  back  in  graceful  exhaustion,  as  it 
were;  her  indolent  limbs,  her  unstudied  pose,  the  utter  lassi- 
tude of  her  movements, — all  suggested  that  this  was  a  woman 
for  whom  life  had  lost  its  interest,  a  woman  who  had  known 
the  joys  of  love  only  in  dreams,  a  woman  bowed  down  by  the 
burden  of  memories  of  the  past,  a  woman  who  had  long  since 
despaired  of  the  future  and  despaired  of  herself,  an  unoccu- 
pied woman  who  took  the  emptiness  of  her  own  life  for  the 
nothingness  of  life. 

Charles  de  Vandenesse  saw  and  admired  the  beautiful  pict- 
ure before  him,  as  a  kind  of  artistic  success  beyond  an 
ordinary  woman's  powers  of  attainment.  He  was  acquainted 
with  d'Aiglemont;  and  now,  at  the  first  sight  of  d'Aigle- 
mont's  wife,  the  young  diplomatist  saw  at  a  glance  a  dispro- 
portionate marriage,  an  incompatibility  (to  use  the  legal  jar- 
gon) so  great  that  it  was  impossible  that  the  Marquise  should 
love  her  husband.  And  yet — the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont's  life 
was  above  reproach,  and  for  any  observer  the  mystery  about 
her  was  the  more  interesting  on  this  account.  The  first  im- 
pulse of  surprise  over,  Vandenesse  cast  about  for  the  best  way 
of  approaching  Mine.  d'Aiglemont.  He  would  try  a  common- 
place piece  of  diplomacy,  he  thought;  he  would  disconcert 
her  by  a  piece  of  clumsiness  and  see  how  she  would  receive  it. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  seating  himself  near  her,  "through  a 
fortunate  indiscretion  I  have  learned  that,  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  me,  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  attract  your 
notice.  I  owe  you  the  more  thanks  because  I  have  never  been 
so  honored  before.  At  the  same  time,  you  are  responsible 
for  one  of  my  faults,  for  I  mean  never  to  be  modest 
again " 

"You  will  make  a  mistake,  monsieur,"  she  laughed; 
"vanity  should  be  left  to  those  who  have  nothing  else  to 
recommend  them." 


TOO  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

The  conversation  thus  opened  ranged  at  large,  in  the  usual 
way,  over  a  multitude  of  topics — art  and  literature,  politics, 
men  and  things — fill  insensibly  they  fell  to  talking  of  the 
eternal  theme  in  France  and  all  the  world  over — love,  senti- 
ment, and  women. 

"We  are  bond-slaves/' 

"You  are  queens." 

This  was  the  gist  and  substance  of  all  the  more  or  less  in- 
genious discourse  between  Charles  and  the  Marquise,  as  of  all 
such  discourses — past,  present,  and  to  come.  Allow  a  certain 
space  of  time,  and  the  two  formulas  shall  begin  to  mean 
"Love  me,"  and  "I  will  love  you." 

"Madame,"  Charles  de  Vandenesse  exclaimed  under  his 
breath,  "you  have  made  me  bitterly  regret  that  I  am  leaving 
Paris.  In  Italy  I  certainly  shall  not  pass  hours  in  intellectual 
enjoyment  such  as  this  has  been." 

"Perhaps,  monsieur,  you  will  find  happiness,  and  happiness 
is  worth  more  than  all  the  brilliant  things,  true  and  false, 
that  are  said  every  evening  in  Paris." 

Before  Charles  took  leave,  he  asked  permission  to  pay  a 
farewell  call  on  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont,  and  very  lucky 
did  he  feel  himself  when  the  form  of  words  in  which  he  ex- 
pressed himself  for  once  was  used  in  all  sincerity;  and  that 
night,  and  all  day  long  on  the  morrow,  he  could  not  put  the 
thought  of  the  Marquise  out  of  his  mind. 

At  times  he  wondered  why  she  had  singled  him  out,  what 
she  had  meant  when  she  asked  him  to  come  to  see  her,  and 
thought  supplied  an  inexhaustible  commentary.  Again  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  discovered  the  motives  of  her 
curiosity,  and  he  grew  intoxicated  with  hope  or  frigidly  sober 
with  each  new  construction  put  upon  that  piece  of  common- 
place civility.  Sometimes  it  meant  everything,  sometimes 
nothing.  He  made  up  his  mind  at  last  that  he  would  not 
yield  to  this  inclination,  and — went  to  call  on  Mme.  d'Aigle- 
mont. 

There  are  thoughts  which  determine  our  conduct,  while  we 
do  not  so  much  as  suspect  their  existence.  If  at  first  sight 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  101 

this  assertion  appears  to  be  less  a  truth  than  a  paradox,  let 
any  candid  inquirer  look  into  his  own  life  and  he  shall  find 
abundant  confirmation  therein.  Charles  went  to  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,  and  so  obeyed  one  of  these  latent,  pre-existent 
germs  of  thought,  of  which  our  experience  and  our  intel- 
lectual gains  and  achievements  are  but  later  and  tangible 
developments. 

For  a  young  man  a  woman  of  thirty  has  irresistible  attrac- 
tions. There  is  nothing  more  natural,  nothing  better  estab- 
lished, no  human  tie  of  stouter  tissue  than  the  heart-deep 
attachment  between  such  a  woman  as  the  Marquise  d'Aigle- 
mont and  such  a  man  as  Charles  de  Vandenesse.  You  can 
see  examples  of  it  every  day  in  the  world.  A  girl,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  has  too  many  young  illusions,  she  is  too  inexperienced, 
the  instinct  of  sex  counts  for  too  much  in  her  love  for  a 
young  man  to  feel  flattered  by  it.  A  woman  of  thirty  knows 
all  that  is  involved  in  the  self-surrender  to  be  made.  Among 
the  impulses  of  the  first,  put  curiosity  and  other  motives  than 
love;  the  second  acts  with  integrity  of  sentiment.  The  first 
yields ;  the  second  makes  deliberate  choice.  Is  not  that  choice 
in  itself  an  immense  flattery?  A  woman  armed  with  ex- 
perience, forewarned  by  knowledge,  almost  always  dearly 
bought,  seems  to  give  more  than  herself;  while  the  inexpe- 
rienced and  credulous  girl,  unable  to  draw  comparisons  for 
lack  of  knowledge,  can  appreciate  nothing  at  its  just  worth. 
She  accepts  love  and  ponders  it.  A  woman  is  a  counselor 
and  a  guide  at  an  age  when  we  love  to  be  guided  and  obedience 
is  delight;  while  a  girl  would  fain  learn  all  things,  meeting 
us  with  a  girl's  naivete  instead  of  a  woman's  tenderness.  She 
affords  a  single  triumph;  with  a  woman  there  is  resistance 
upon  resistance  to  overcome;  she  has  but  joy  and  tears,  a 
woman  has  rapture  and  remorse. 

A  girl  cannot  play  the  part  of  a  mistress  unless  she  is  so 
corrupt  that  we  turn  from  her  with  loathing;  a  woman 
has  a  thousand  ways  of  preserving  her  power  and  her  dignity ; 
she  has  risked  so  much  for  love,  that  she  must  bid  him  pass 
through  his  myriad  transformations,  while  her  too  submissive 


102  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

rival  gives  a  sense  of  too  serene  security  which  palls.  If 
the  one  sacrifices  her  maidenly  pride,  the  other  immolates  the 
honor  of  a  whole  family.  A  girl's  coquetry  is  of  the  simplest, 
she  thinks  that  all  is  said  when  the  veil  is  laid  aside;  a 
woman's  coquetry  is  endless,  she  shrouds  herself  in  veil  after 
veil,  she  satisfies  every  demand  of  man's  vanity,  the  novice 
responds  but  to  one. 

And  there  are  terrors,  fears,  and  hesitations — trouble  and 
storm  in  the  love  of  a  woman  of  thirty  years,  never  to  be 
found  in  a  young  girl's  love.  At  thirty  years  a  woman  asks 
her  lover  to  give  her  back  the  esteem  she  has  forfeited  for 
his  sake;  she  lives  only  for  him,  her  thoughts  are  full  of  his 
future,  he  must  have  a  great  career,  she  bids  him  make  it 
glorious;  she  can  obey,  entreat,  command,  humble  herself, 
or  rise  in  pride;  times  without  number  she  brings  comfort 
when  a  young  girl  can  only  make  moan.  And  with  all  the 
advantages  of  her  position,  the  woman  of  thirty  can  be  a 
girl  again,  for  she  can  play  all  parts,  assume  a  girl's  bashful- 
ness,  and  grow  the  fairer  even  for  a  mischance. 

Between  these  two  feminine  types  lies  the  immeasurable 
difference  which  separates  the  foreseen  from  the  unforeseen, 
strength  from  weakness.  The  woman  of  thirty  satisfies  every 
requirement ;  the  young  girl  must  satisfy  none,  under  penalty 
of  ceasing  to  be  a  young  girl.  Such  ideas  as  these,  developing 
in  a  young  man's  mind,  help  to  strengthen  the  strongest  of 
all  passions,  a  passion  in  which  all  spontaneous  and  natural 
feeling  is  blended  with  the  artificial  sentiment  created  by  con- 
ventional manners. 

The  most  important  and  decisive  step  in  a  woman's  life  is 
the  very  one  that  she  invariably  regards  as  the  most  insig- 
nificant. After  her  marriage  she  is  no  longer  her  own  mis- 
tress, she  is  the  queen  and  the  bond-slave  of  the  domestic 
hearth.  The  sanctity  of  womanhood  is  incompatible  with 
social  liberty  and  social  claims;  and  for  a  woman  emancipa- 
tion means  corruption.  If  you  give  a  stranger  the  right  of 
entry  into  the  sanctuary  of  home,  do  you  not  put  yourself  at 
his  mercy  ?  How  then  if  she  herself  bids  him  enter  in  ?  Is  not 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  103 

this  an  offence,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  a  first  step  to- 
wards an  offence?  You  must  either  accept  this  theory  with 
all  its  consequences,  or  absolve  illicit  passion.  French  society 
hitherto  has  chosen  the  third  and  middle  course  of  looking 
on  and  laughing  when  offences  come,  apparently  upon  the 
Spartan  principle  of  condoning  the  theft  and  punishing 
clumsiness.  And  this  system,  it  may  be,  is  a  very  wise  one. 
'Tis  a  most  appalling  punishment  to  have  all  your  neighbors 
pointing  the  finger  of  scorn  at  you,  a  punishment  that  a 
woman  feels  in  her  very  heart.  Women  are  tenacious,  and 
all  of  them  should  be  tenacious  of  respect;  without  esteem 
they  cannot  exist,  esteem  is  the  first  demand  that  they  make 
of  love.  The  most  corrupt  among  them  feels  that  she  must, 
in  the  first  place,  pledge  the  future  to  buy  absolution  for  the 
past,  and  strives  to  make  her  lover  understand  that  only  for 
irresistible  bliss  can  she  barter  the  respect  which  the  world 
henceforth  will  refuse  to  her. 

Some  such  reflections  cross  the  mind  of  any  woman  who 
for  the  first  time  and  alone  receives  a  visit  from  a  young 
man;  and  this  especially  when,  like  Charles  de  Vandenesse, 
the  visitor  is  handsome  or  clever.  And  similarly  there  are 
not  many  young  men  who  would  fail  to  base  some  secret  wish 
on  one  of  the  thousand  and  one  ideas  which  justify  the  in- 
stinct that  attracts  them  to  a  beautiful,  witty,  and  unhappy 
woman  like  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  therefore,  felt  troubled  when  M.  de 
Vandenesse  was  announced;  and  as  for  him,  he  was  almost 
confused  in  spite  of  the  assurance  which  is  like  a  matter  of 
costume  for  a  diplomatist.  But  not  for  long.  The  Marquise 
took  refuge  at  once  in  the  friendliness  of  manner  which 
women  use  as  a  defence  against  the  misinterpretations  of 
fatuity,  a  manner  which  admits  of  no  afterthought,  while  it 
paves  the  way  to  sentiment  (to  make  use  of  a  figure  of 
speech),  tempering  the  transition  through  the  ordinary 
forms  of  politeness.  In  this  ambiguous  position,  where  the 
four  roads  leading  respectively  to  Indifference,  Eespect,  Won- 
der, and  Passion  meet,  a  woman  may  stay  as  long  as  she 


104  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

pleases,  but  only  at  thirty  years  does  she  understand  all  the 
possibilities  of  the  situation.  Laughter,  tenderness,  and  jest 
are  all  permitted  to  her  at  the  crossing  of  the  ways;  she  has 
acquired  the  tact  by  which  she  finds  all  the  responsive  chords 
in  a  man's  nature,  and  skill  in  judging  the  sounds  which 
she  draws  forth.  Her  silence  is  as  dangerous  as  her  speech. 
You  will  never  read  her  at  that  age,  nor  discover  if  she  is 
frank  or  false,  nor  how  far  she  is  serious  in  her  admissions 
or  merely  laughing  at  you.  She  gives  you  the  right  to  en- 
gage in  a  game  of  fence  with  her,  and  suddenly  by  a  glance, 
a  gesture  of  proved  potency,  she  closes  the  combat  and  turns 
from  you  with  your  secret  in  her  keeping,  free  to  offer  you 
up  to  a  jest,  free  to  interest  herself  in  you,  safe  alike  in  her 
weakness  and  your  strength. 

Although  the  Marquise  d'Aiglemont  took  up  her  position 
upon  this  neutral  ground  during  the  first  interview,  she  knew 
how  to  preserve  a  high  womanly  dignity.  The  sorrows  of 
which  she  never  spoke  seemed  to  hang  over  her  assumed 
gaiety  like  a  light  cloud  obscuring  the  sun.  When  Vandenesse 
went  out,  after  a  conversation  which  he  had  enjoyed  more 
than  he  had  thought  possible,  he  carried  with  him  the  con- 
viction that  this  was  like-  to  be  too  costly  a  conquest  for  his 
aspirations. 

"It  would  mean  sentiment  from  here  to  yonder,"  he 
thought,  "and  correspondence  enough  to  wear  out  a  deputy 
second-clerk  on  his  promotion.  And  yet  if  I  really  cared — 

Luckless  phrase  that  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  an  in- 
fatuated mortal.  In  France  the  way  to  love  lies  through 
self-love.  Charles  went  back  to  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  and  im- 
agined that  she  showed  symptoms  of  pleasure  in  his  conver- 
sion. And  then,  instead  of  giving  himself  up  like  a  boy  to 
the  joy  of  falling  in  love,  he  tried  to  play  a  double  role.  He 
did  his  best  to  act  passion  and  to  keep  cool  enough  to  analyze 
the  progress  of  this  flirtation,  to  be  lover  and  diplomatist  at 
once;  but  youth  and  hot  blood  and  analysis  could  only  end 
in  one  way,  over  head  and  ears  in  love ;  for,  natural  or  arti- 
ficial, the  Marquise  was  more  than  his  match.  Each  time 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  105 

as  he  went  out  from  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  he  strenuously  held 
himself  to  his  distrust,  and  submitted  the  progressive  situa- 
tions of  his  case  to  a  rigorous  scrutiny  fatal  to  his  own  emo- 
tions. 

"To-day  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  she  has  been  very 
unhappy  and  lonely,"  said  he  to  himself,  after  the  third 
visit,  "and  that  but  for  her  little  girl  she  would  have  longed 
for  death.  She  was  perfectly  resigned.  Now  as  I  am  neither 
her  brother  nor  her  spiritual  director,  why  should  she  con- 
fide her  troubles  to  me?  She  loves  me." 

Two  days  later  he  came  away  apostrophizing  modern  man- 
ners. 

"Love  takes  on  the  hue  of  every  age.  In  1822  love  is  a 
doctrinaire.  Instead  of  proving  love  by  deeds,  as  in  times 
past,  we  have  taken  to  argument  and  rhetoric  and  debate. 
Women's  tactics  are  reduced  to  three  shifts.  In  the  first 
place,  they  declare  that  we  cannot  love  as  they  love.  (Co- 
quetry !  the  Marquise  simply  threw  it  at  me,  like  a  challenge, 
this  evening ! )  Next  they  grow  pathetic,  to  appeal  to  our 
natural  generosity  or  self-love;  for  does  it  not  flatter  a  young 
man's  vanity  to  console  a  woman  for  a  great  calamity?  And 
lastly,  they  have  a  craze  for  virginity.  She  must  have  thought 
that  I  thought  her  very  innocent.  My  good  faith  is  like  to 
become  an  excellent  speculation." 

But  a  day  came  when  every  suspicious  idea  was  exhausted. 
He  asked  himself  whether  the  Marquise  was  not  sincere; 
whether  so  much  suffering  could  be  feigned,  and  why  she 
should  act  the  part  of  resignation?  She  lived  in  complete 
seclusion;  she  drank  in  silence  of  a  cup  of  sorrow  scarcely 
to  be  guessed  unless  from  the  accent  of  some  chance  ex- 
clamation in  a  voice  always  well  under  control.  From  that 
moment  Charles  felt  a  keen  interest  in  Mme.  d'Aiglemont. 
And  yet,  though  his  visits  had  come  to  be  a  recognized  thing, 
and  in  some  sort  a  necessity  to  them  both,  and  though  the 
hour  was  kept  free  by  tacit  agreement,  Vandenesse  still 
thought  that  this  woman  with  whom  he  was  in  love  was  more 
clever  than  sincere.  "Decidedly,  she  is  an  uncommonly  clever 
woman/'  he  used  to  say  to  himself  as  he  went  away. 


106  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

When  he  came  into  the  room,  there  was  the  Marquise  in 
her  favorite  attitude,  melancholy  expressed  in  her  whole 
form.  She  made  no  movement  when  he  entered,  only  raised 
her  eyes  and  looked  full  at  him.,  but  the  glance  that  she  gave 
him  was  like  a  smile.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  manner  meant 
confidence  and  sincere  friendship,  but  of  love  there  was  no 
trace.  Charles  sat  down  and  found  nothing  to  say.  A  sensa- 
tion for  which  no  language  exists  troubled  him. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked  in  a  softened 
voice. 

"Nothing.  .  .  .  Yes;  I  am  thinking  of  something  of 
which,  as  yet,  you  have  not  thought  at  all." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Why — the  Congress  is  over." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "and  ought  you  to  have  been  at  the  Con- 


gress 


9» 


A  direct  answer  would  have  been  the  most  eloquent  and 
delicate  declaration  of  love;  but  Charles  did  not  make  it. 
Before  the  candid  friendship  in  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  face 
all  the  calculations  of  vanity,  the  hopes  of  love,  and  the 
diplomatist's  doubts  died  away.  She  did  not  suspect,  or  she 
seemed  not  to  suspect,  his  love  for  her ;  and  Charles,  in  utter 
confusion  turning  upon  himself,  was  forced  to  admit  that 
he  had  said  and  done  nothing  which  could  warrant  such  a 
belief  on  her  part.  For  M.  de  Vandenesse  that  evening,  the 
Marquise  was,  as  she  had  always  been,  simple  and  friendly, 
sincere  in  her  sorrow,  glad  to  have  a  friend,  proud  to  find  a 
nature  responsive  to  her  own — nothing  more.  It  had  not 
entered  her  mind  that  a  woman  could  yield  twice;  she  had 
known  love — love  lay  bleeding  still  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart,  but  she  did  not  imagine  that  bliss  could  bring  her  its 
rapture  twice,  for  she  believed  not  merely  in  the  intellect, 
but  in  the  soul;  and  for  her  love  was  no  simple  attraction; 
it  drew  her  with  all  noble  attractions. 

In  a  moment  Charles  became  a  young  man  again,  en- 
thralled by  the  splendor  of  a  nature  so  lofty.  He  wished  for 
a  fuller  initiation  into  the  secret  history  of  a  life  blighted 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  107 

rather  by  fate  than  by  her  own  fault.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont 
heard  him  ask  the  cause  of  the  overwhelming  sorrow  which 
had  blended  all  the  harmonies  of  sadness  with  her  beauty; 
she  gave  him  one  glance,  but  that  searching  look  was  like  a 
seal  set  upon  some  solemn  compact. 

"Ask  no  more  such  questions  of  me,"  she  said.  "Four  years 
ago,  on  this  very  day,  the  man  who  loved  me,  for  whom  I 
would  have  given  up  everything,  even  my  own  self-respect, 
died,  and  died  to  save  my  name.  That  love  was  still  young 
and  pure  and  full  of  illusions  when  it  came  to  an  end.  Be- 
fore I  gave  way  to  passion — and  never  was  woman  so  urged 
by  fate — I  had  been  drawn  into  the  mistake  that  ruins  many 
a  girl's  life,  a  marriage  with  a  man  whose  agreeable  manners 
concealed  his  emptiness.  Marriage  plucked  my  hopes  away 
one  by  one.  And  now,  to-day,  I  have  forfeited  happiness 
through  marriage,  as  well  as  the  happiness  styled  criminal, 
and  I  have  known  no  happiness.  Nothing  is  left  to  me.  If 
I  could  not  die,  at  the  least  I  ought  to  be  faithful  to  my  memo- 
ries." 

No  tears  came  with  the  words.  Her  eyes  fell,  and  there 
was  a  slight  twisting  of  the  fingers  interclasped,  according 
to  her  wont.  It  was  simply  said,  but  in  her  voice  there  was 
a  note  of  despair,  deep  as  her  love  seemed  to  have  been,  which 
left  Charles  without  a  hope.  The  dreadful  story  of  a  life 
told  in  three  sentences,  with  that  twisting  of  the  fingers  for 
all  comment,  the  might  of  anguish  in  a  fragile  woman,  the 
dark  depths  masked  by  a  fair  face,  the  tears  of  four  years 
of  mourning  fascinated  Vandenesse ;  he  sat  silent  and  dimin- 
ished in  the  presence  of  her  woman's  greatness  and  nobleness, 
seeing  not  the  physical  beauty  so  exquisite,  so  perfectly  com- 
plete, but  the  soul  so  great  in  its  power  to  feel.  He  had  found, 
at  last,  the  ideal  of  his  fantastic  imaginings,  the  ideal  so 
vigorously  invoked  by  all  who  look  on  life  as  the  raw  material 
of  a  passion  for  which  many  a  one  seeks  ardently,  and  dies 
before  he  has  grasped  the  whole  of  the  dreamed-of  treasure. 

With  those  words  of  hers  in  his  ears,  in  the  presence  of  her 
sublime  beauty,  his  own  thoughts  seemed  poor  and  narrow. 


108  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

Powerless  as  he  felt  himself  to  find  words  of  his  own,  simple 
enough  and  lofty  enough  to  scale  the  heights  of  this  exalta- 
tion, he  took  refuge  in  platitudes  as  to  the  destiny  of  women. 

"Madame,  we  must  either  forget  our  pain,  or  hollow  out 
a  tomb  for  ourselves." 

But  reason  always  cuts  a  poor  figure  beside  sentiment ;  the 
one  being  essentially  restricted,  like  everything  that  is  posi- 
tive, while  the  other  is  infinite.  To  set  to  work  to  reason 
where  you  are  required  to  feel,  is  the  mark  of  a  limited 
nature.  Vandenesse  therefore  held  his  peace,  sat  awhile  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  then  came  away.  A  prey  to  novel 
thoughts  which  exalted  woman  for  him,  he  was  in  something 
the  same  position  as  a  painter  who  has  taken  the  vulgar 
studio  model  for  a  type  of  womanhood,  and  suddenly  con- 
fronts the  Mnemosyne  of  the  Musee — that  noblest  and  least 
appreciated  of  antique  statues. 

Charles  de  Vandenesse  was  deeply  in  love.  He  loved  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  with  the  loyalty  of  youth,  with  the  fervor  that 
communicates  such  ineffable  charm  to  a  first  passion,  with  a 
simplicity  of  heart  of  which  a  man  only  recovers  some  frag- 
ments when  he  loves  again  at  a  later  day.  Delicious  first  pas- 
sion of  youth,  almost  always  deliciously  savored  by  the  woman 
who  calls  it  forth ;  f 6r  at  the  golden  prime  of  thirty,  from  the 
poetic  summit  of  a  woman's  life,  she  can  look  out  over  the 
whole  course  of  love — backwards  into  the  past,  forwards 
into  the  future — and,  knowing  all  the  price  to  be  paid  for 
love,  enjoys  her  bliss  with  the  dread  of  losing  it  ever  present 
with  her.  Her  soul  is  still  fair  with  her  waning  youth,  and 
passion  daily  gathers  strength  from  the  dismaying  prospect 
of  the  coming  days. 

"This  is  love,"  Vandenesse  said  to  himself  this  time  as  he 
left  the  Marquise,  "and  for  my  misfortune  I  love  a  woman 
wedded  to  her  memories.  It  is  hard  work  to  struggle  against 
a  dead  rival,  never  present  to  make  blunders  and  fall  out  of 
favor,  nothing  of  him  left  but  his  better  qualities.  What  is 
it  but  a  sort  of  high  treason  against  the  Ideal  to  attempt 
to  break  the  charm  of  memory,  to  destroy  the  hopes  that  sur- 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  109 

vive  a  lost  lover,  precisely  because  he  only  awakened  long- 
ings, and  all  that  is  loveliest  and  most  enchanting  in  love?" 
These  sober  reflections,  due  to  the  discouragement  and 
dread  of  failure  with  which  love  begins  in  earnest,  were  the 
last  expiring  effort  of  diplomatic  reasoning.  Thenceforward 
he  knew  no  afterthoughts,  he  was  the  plaything  of  his  love, 
and  lost  himself  in  the  nothings  of  that  strange  inexplicable 
happiness  which  is  full  fed  by  a  chance  word,  by  silence,  or 
a  vague  hope.  He  tried  to  love  Platonically,  came  daily  to 
breathe  the  air  that  she  breathed,  became  almost  a  part  of 
her  house,  and  went  everywhere  with  her,  slave  as  he  was  of 
a  tyrannous  passion  compounded  of  egoism  and  devotion  of 
the  completest.  Love  has  its  own  instinct,  finding  the  way 
to  the  heart,  as  the  feeblest  insect  finds  the  way  to  its  flower, 
with  a  will  which  nothing  can  dismay  nor  turn  aside.  If 
feeling  is  sincere,  its  destiny  is  not  doubtful.  Let  a  woman 
begin  to  think  that  her  life  depends  on  the  sincerity  or  fervor 
or  earnestness  which  her  lover  shall  put  into  his  longings, 
and  is  there  not  sufficient  in  the  thought  to  put  her  through 
all  the  tortures  of  dread?  It  is  impossible  for  a  woman,  be 
she  wife  or  mother,  to  be  secure  from  a  young  man's  love. 
One  thing  it  is  within  her  power  to  do — to  refuse  to  see  him 
as  soon  as  she  learns  a  secret  which  she  never  fails  to  guess. 
But  this  is  too  decided  a  step  to  take  at  an  age  when  marriage 
has  become  a  prosaic  and  tiresome  yoke,  and  conjugal  affec- 
tion is  something  less  than  tepid  (if  indeed  her  husband  has 
not  already  begun  to  neglect  her).  Is  a  woman  plain?  She 
is  flattered  by  a  love  which  gives  her  fairness.  Is  she  young 
and  charming?  She  is  only  to  be  won  by  a  fascination  as 
great  as  her  own  power  to  charm,  that  is  to  say,  a  fascination 
well-nigh  irresistible.  Is  she  virtuous?  There  is  a  love  sub- 
lime in  its  earthliness  which  leads  her  to  find  something  like 
absolution  in  the  very  greatness  of  the  surrender  and  glory 
in  a  hard  struggle.  Everything  is  a  snare.  No  lesson,  there- 
fore, is  too  severe  where  the  temptation  is  so  strong.  The 
seclusion  in  which  the  Greeks  and  Orientals  kept  and  keep 
their  women,  an  example  more  and  more  followed  in  modern 


110  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

England,  is  the  only  safeguard  of  domestic  morality;  but 
Tinder  this  system  there  is  an  end  of  all  the  charm  of  social 
intercourse;  and  society,  and  good  breeding,  and  refinement 
of  manners  become  impossible.  The  nations  must  take  their 
choice. 

So  a  few  months  went  by,  and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  dis- 
covered that  her  life  was  closely  bound  with  this  young  man's 
life,  without  overmuch  confusion  in  her  surprise,  and  felt 
with  something  almost  like  pleasure  that  she  shared  his 
tastes  and  his  thoughts.  Had  she  adopted  Vandenesse's 
ideas?  Or  was  it  Vandenesse  who  had  made  her  lightest 
whims  his  own?  She  was  not  careful  to  inquire.  She  had 
been  swept  out  already  into  the  current  of  passion,  and  yet 
this  adorable  woman  told  herself  with  the  confident  reitera- 
tion of  misgiving : 

"Ah!  no.    i  will  be  faithful  to  him  who  died  for  me." 

Pascal  said  that  "the  doubt  of  God  implies  belief  in  God." 
And  similarly  it  may  be  said  that  a  woman  only  parleys  when 
she  has  surrendered.  A  day  came  when  the  Marquise  ad- 
mitted to  herself  that  she  was  loved,  and  with  that  admis- 
sion came  a  time  of  wavering  among  countless  conflicting 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  superstitions  of  experience  spoke 
their  language.  Should  she  be  happy?  Was  it  possible  that 
she  should  find  happiness  outside  the  limits  of  the  laws  which 
society  rightly  or  wrongly  has  set  up  for  humanity  to  live  by  ? 
Hitherto  her  cup  of  life  had  been  full  of  bitterness.  Was 
there  any  happy  issue  possible  for  the  ties  which  united  two 
human  beings  held  apart  by  social  conventions?  And  might 
not  happiness  be  bought  too  dear?  Still,  this  so  ardently 
desired  happiness,  for  which  it  is  so  natural  to  seek,  might 
perhaps  be  found  after  all.  Curiosity  is  always  retained  on 
the  lover's  side  in  the  suit.  The  secret  tribunal  was  still  sit- 
ting when  Vandenesse  appeared,  and  his  presence  put  the 
metaphysical  spectre,  reason,  to  flight. 

If  such  are  the  successive  transformations  through  which 
a  sentiment,  transient  though  it  be,  passes  in  a  young  man 
and  a  woman  of  thirty,  there  comes  a  moment  of  time  when 


A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY  111 

the  shades  of  difference  blend  into  each  other,  when  all  rea- 
sonings end  in  a  single  and  final  reflection  which  is  lost  and 
absorbed  in  the  desire  which  it  confirms.  Then  the  longer  the 
resistance,  the  mightier  the  voice  of  love.  And  here  endeth 
this  lesson,  or  rather  this  study  made  from  the  ecorclie,  to 
borrow  a  most  graphic  term  from  the  studio,  for  in  this  his- 
tory it  is  not  so  much  intended  to  portray  love  as  to  lay  bare 
its  mechanism  and  its  dangers.  From  this  moment  every  day 
adds  color  to  these  dry  bones,  clothes  them  again  with  living 
flesh  and  blood  and  the  charm  of  youth,  and  puts  vitality 
into  their  movements;  till  they  glow  once  more  with  the 
beauty,  the  persuasive  grace  of  sentiment,  the  loveliness  of 
life. 

Charles  found  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  absorbed  in  thought,  and 
to  his  "What  is  it?"  spoken  in  thrilling  tones  grown  per- 
suasive with  the  heart's  soft  magic,  she  was  careful  not  to 
reply.  The  delicious  question  bore  witness  to  the  perfect 
unity  of  their  spirits ;  and  the  Marquise  felt,  with  a  woman's 
wonderful  intuition,  that  to  give  any  expression  to  the  sor- 
row in  her  heart  would  be  to  make  an  advance.  If,  even 
now,  each  one  of  those  words  was  fraught  with  significance 
for  them  both,  in  what  fathomless  depths  might  she  not 
plunge  at  the  first  step?  She  read  herself  with  a  clear  and 
lucid  glance.  She  was  silent,  and  Vandenesse  followed  her 
example. 

"I  am  not  feeling  well,"  she  said  at  last,  taking  alarm  at 
the  pause  fraught  with  such  great  moment  for  them  both, 
when  the  language  of  the  eyes  completely  filled  the  blank  left 
by  the  helplessness  of  speech. 

"Madame,"  said  Charles,  and  his  voice  was  tender  but  un- 
steady with  strong  feeling,  "soul  and  body  are  both  de- 
pendent on  each  other.  If  you  were  happy,  you  would  be 
young  and  fresh.  Why  do  you  refuse  to  ask  of  love  all  that 
love  has  taken  from  you?  You  think  that  your  life  is  over 
when  it  is  only  just  beginning.  Trust  yourself  to  a  friend's 
care.  It  is  so  sweet  to  be  loved." 


112  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

"I  am  old  already,"  she  said;  "there  is  no  reason  why  i 
should  not  continue  to  suffer  as  in  the  past.  And  'one  must 
love/  do  you  say?  Well,  I  must  not,  and  I  cannot.  Your 
friendship  has  put  some  sweetness  into  my  life,  but  beside 
you  I  care  for  no  one,  no  one  could  efface  my  memories.  A 
friend  I  accept;  I  should  fly  from  a  lover.  Besides,  would  it 
be  a  very  generous  thing  to  do,  to  exchange  a  withered  heart 
for  a  young  heart;  to  smile  upon  illusions  which  now  I  can- 
not share,  to  cause  happiness  in  which  I  should  either  have 
no  belief,  or  tremble  to  lose?  I  should  perhaps  respond  to 
his  devotion  with  egoism,  should  weigh  and  deliberate  while 
he  felt ;  my  memory  would  resent  the  poignancy  of  his  happi- 
ness. No,  if  you  love  once,  that  love  is  never,  replaced,  you 
see.  Indeed,  who  would  have  my  heart  at  this  price?" 

There  was  a  tinge  of  heartless  coquetry  in  the  words,  the 
last  effort  of  discretion. 

"If  he  loses  courage,  well  and  good,  I  shall  live  alone  and 
faithful."  The  thought  came  from  the  very  depths  of  the 
woman,  for  her  it  was  the  too  slender  willow  twig  caught 
in  vain  by  a  swimmer  swept  out  by  the  current. 

Vandenesse's  involuntary  shudder  at  her  dictum  plead 
more  eloquently  for  him  than  all  his  past  assiduity.  Noth- 
ing moves  a  woman  so  much  as  the  discovery  of  a  gracious 
delicacy  in  us,  such  a  refinement  of  sentiment  as  her  own, 
for  a  woman  the  grace  and  delicacy  are  sure  tokens  of  truth. 
Charles'  start  revealed  the  sincerity  of  his  love.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  learned  the  strength  of  his  affection  from  the 
intensity  of  his  pain. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said  coldly.  "New  love,  new 
vexation  of  spirit." 

Then  he  changed  the  subject,  and  spoke  of  indifferent  mat- 
ters; but  he  was  visibly  moved,  and  he  concentrated  his  gaze 
on  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  as  if  he  were  seeing  her  for  the  last 
time. 

"Adieu,  madame,"  he  said,  with  emotion  in  his  voice. 

"Au  revoir"  said  she,  with  that  subtle  coquetry,  the  secret 
of  a  very  few  among  women. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  113 

He  made  no  answer  and  went. 

When  Charles  was  no  longer  there,  when  his  empty  chair 
spoke  for  him,  regrets  nocked  in  upon  her,  and  she  found 
fault  with  herself.  Passion  makes  an  immense  advance  as 
soon  as  a  woman  persuades  herself  that  she  has  failed  some- 
what in  generosity  or  hurt  a  noble  nature.  In  love  there  is 
never  any  need  to  be  on  our  guard  against  the  worst  in  us; 
that  is  a  safeguard;  a  woman  only  surrenders  at  the  sum- 
mons of  a  virtue.  "The  floor  of  hell  is  paved  with  good  in- 
tentions,"— it  is  no  preacher's  paradox. 

Vandenesse  stopped  away  for  several  days.  Every  evening 
at  the  accustomed  hour  the  Marquise  sat  expectant  in  re- 
morseful impatience.  She  could  not  write — that  would  be 
a  declaration,  and,  moreover,  her  instinct  told  her  that  he 
would  come  back.  On  the  sixth  day  he  was  announced,  and 
never  had  she  heard  the  name  with  such  delight.  Her  joy 
frightened  her. 

"You  have  punished  me  well,"  she  said,  addressing  him. 

Vandenesse  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Punished?"  he  echoed.  "And  for  what?"  He  under- 
stood her  quite  well,  but  he  meant  to  be  avenged  for  all  that 
he  had  suffered  as  soon  as  she  suspected  it. 

"Why  have  you  not  come  to  see  me?"  she  demanded  with 
a  smile. 

"Then  have  you  seen  no  visitors?"  asked  he,  parrying  the 
question. 

"Yes.  M.  de  Eonquerolles  and  M.  de  Marsay  and  young 
d'Escrignon  came  and  stayed  for  nearly  two  hours,  the  first 
two  yesterday,  the  last  this  morning.  And  besides,  I 
have  had  a  call,  I  believe,  from  Mme.  Firmiani  and  from 
your  sister,  Mme.  de  Listomere." 

Here  was  a  new  infliction,  torture  which  none  can  compre- 
hend unless  they  know  love  as  a  fierce  and  all-invading  tyrant 
whose  mildest  symptom  is  a  monstrous  jealousy,  a  perpetual 
desire  to  snatch  away  the  beloved  from  every  other  influence. 

"What !"  thought  he  to  himself,  "she  has  seen  visitors,  she 
has  been  with  happy  creatures,  and  talking  to  them,  while  I 
was  unhappy  and  all  alone." 

VOL.  5—32 


114  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

He  buried  his  annoyance  forthwith,  and  consigned  love  to 
the  depths  of  his  heart,  like  a  coffin  to  the  sea.  His  thoughts 
were  of  the  kind  that  never  find  expression  in  words;  they 
pass  through  the  mind  swiftly  as  a  deadly  acid,  that  poisons 
as  it  evaporates  and  vanishes.  His  brow,  however,  was  over- 
clouded; and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  guided  by  her  woman's  in- 
stinct, shared  his  sadness  without  understanding  it.  She  had 
hurt  him,  unwittingly,  as  Vandenesse  knew.  He  talked  over 
his  position  with  her,  as  if  his  jealousy  were  one  of  those 
hypothetical  cases  which  lovers  love  to  discuss.  Then  the 
Marquise  understood  it  all.  She  was  so  deeply  moved,  that 
she  could  not  keep  back  the  tears — and  so  these  lovers  entered 
the  heaven  of  love. 

Heaven  and  Hell  are  two  great  imaginative  conceptions 
formulating  our  ideas  of  Joy  and  Sorrow — those  two  poles 
about  which  human  existence  revolves.  Is  not  heaven  a  figure 
of  speech  covering  now  and  for  evermore  an  infinite  of  human 
feeling  impossible  to  express  save  in  its  accidents — since  that 
Joy  is  one  ?  And  what  is  Hell  but  the  symbol  of  our  infinite 
power  to  suffer  tortures  so  diverse  that  of  our  pain  it  is 
possible  to  fashion  works  of  art,  for  no  two  human  sorrows 
are  alike  ? 

One  evening  the  two  lovers  sat  alone  and  side  by  side, 
silently  watching  one  of  the  fairest  transformations  of  the 
sky,  a  cloudless  heaven  taking  hues  of  pale  gold  and  purple 
from  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset.  With  the  slow  fading  of 
the  daylight,  sweet  thoughts  seem  to  awaken,  and  soft  stir- 
rings of  passion  and  a  mysterious  sense  of  trouble  in  the 
midst  of  calm.  Nature  sets  before  us  vague  images  of  bliss, 
bidding  us  enjoy  the  happiness  within  our  reach,  or  lament 
it  when  it  has  fled.  In  those  moments  fraught  with  enchant- 
ment, when  the  tender  light  in.  the  canopy  of  the  sky  blends 
in  harmony  with  the  spells  working  within,  it  is  difficult  to 
resist  the  heart's  desires  grown  so  magically  potent.  Cares 
are  blunted,  joy  becomes  ecstasy;  pain,  intolerable  anguish. 
The  pomp  of  sunset  gives  the  signal  for  confessions  and  draws 
them  forth.  Silence  grows  more  dangerous  than  speech,  for 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  115 

it  gives  to  eyes  all  the  power  of  the  infinite  of  the  heavens 
reflected  in  them.  And  for  speech,  the  least  word  has  irre- 
sistible might.  Is  not  the  light  infused  into  the  voice  and 
purple  into  the  glances?  Is  not  heaven  within  us,  or  do  we 
feel  that  we  are  in  the  heavens  ? 

Vandenesse  and  Julie — for  so  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
be  called  for  the  past  few  days  by  him  whom  she  loved  to 
speak  of  as  Charles — Vandenesse  and  Julie  were  talking  to- 
gether, but  they  had  drifted  very  far  from  their  original  sub- 
ject: and  if  their  spoken  words  had  grown  meaningless  they 
listened  in  delight  to  the  unspoken  thoughts  that  lurked  in 
the  sounds.  Her  hand  lay  in  his.  She  had  abandoned  it  to 
him  without  a  thought  that  she  had  granted  a  proof  of  love. 

Together  they  leaned  forward  to  look  out  upon  a  majestic 
cloud  country,  full  of  snows  and  glaciers  and  fantastic 
mountain  peaks  with  gray  stains  of  shadow  on  their  sides, 
a  picture  composed  of  sharp  contrasts  between  fiery  red  and 
the  shadows  of  darkness,  filling  the  skies  with  a  fleeting 
vision  of  glory  which  cannot  be  reproduced — magnificent 
swaddling-bands  of  sunrise,  bright  shrouds  of  the  dying  sun. 
As  they  leaned,  Julie's  hair  brushed  lightly  against  Vande- 
nesse's  cheek.  She  felt  that  light  contact,  and  shuddered  vio- 
lently, and  he  even  more,  for  imperceptibly  they  both  had 
reached  one  of  those  inexplicable  crises  when  quiet  has 
wrought  upon  the  senses  until  every  faculty  of  perception  is 
so  keen  that  the  slightest  shock  fills  the  heart  lost  in  melan- 
choly with  sadness  that  overflows  in  tears;  or  raises  joy  to 
ecstasy  in  a  heart  that  is  lost  in  the  vertigo  of  love.  Almost 
involuntarily  Julie  pressed  her  lover's  hand.  That  wooing 
pressure  gave  courage  to  his  timidity.  All  the  joy  of  the 
present,  all  the  hopes  of  the  future  were  blended  in  the  emo- 
tion of  a  first  caress,  the  bashful  trembling  kiss  that  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  received  upon  her  cheek.  The  slighter  the  con- 
cession, the  more  dangerous  and  insinuating  it  was.  For 
their  double  misfortune  it  was  only  too  sincere  a  revelation. 
Two  noble  natures  had  met  and  blended,  drawn  each  to  each 
by  every  law  of  natural  attraction,  held  apart  by  every  ordi- 
nance. 


116  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

General  d'Aiglemont  came  in  at  that  very  moment. 

"The  Ministry  has  gone  out/'  he  said.  "Your  uncle  will 
be  in  the  new  cabinet.  So  you  stand  an  uncommonly  good 
chance  of  an  embassy,  Vandenesse." 

Charles  and  Julie  looked  at  each  other  and  flushed  red. 
That  blush  was  one  more  tie  to  unite  them;  there  was  one 
thought  and  one  remorse  in  either  mind;  between  two  lovers 
guilty  of  a  kiss  there  is  a  bond  quite  as  strong  and  terrible 
as  the  bond  between  two  robbers  who  have  murdered  a  man. 
Something  had  to  be  said  by  way  of  reply. 

"I  do  not  care  to  leave  Paris  now,"  Charles  said. 

"We  know  why,"  said  the  General,  with  the  knowing  air 
of  a  man  who  discovers  a  secret.  "You  do  not  like  to  leave 
your  uncle,  because  you  do  not  wish  to  lose  your  chance  of 
succeeding  to  the  title." 

The  Marquise  took  refuge  in  her  room,  and  in  her  mind 
passed  a  pitiless  verdict  upon  her  husband. 

"His  stupidity  is  really  beyond  anything!" 


IV. 

THE  FINGER  OF  GOD 

BETWEEN  the  Barriere  d'ltalie  and  the  Barriere  de  la  Sant6, 
along  the  boulevard  which  leads  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
you  have  a  view  of  Paris  fit  to  send  an  artist  or  the  tourist, 
the  most  blase  in  matters  of  landscape,  into  ecstasies.  Reach 
the  slightly  higher  ground  where  the  line  of  boulevard, 
shaded  by  tall,  .thick-spreading  trees,  curves  with  the  grace 
of  some  green  and  silent  forest  avenue,  and  you  see  spread 
out  at  your  feet  a  deep  valley  populous  with  factories  look- 
ing almost  countrified  among  green  trees  and  the  brown 
streams  of  the  Bievre  or  the  Gobelins. 

On  the  opposite  slope,  beneath  some  thousands  of  roof? 
packed  close  together  like  heads  in  a  crowd,  lurks  the  squalor 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  117 

of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  The  imposing  cupola  of 
the  Pantheon,  and  the  grim  melancholy  dome  of  the  Val-du- 
Grace,  tower  proudly  up  above  a  whole  town  in  itself,  built 
amphitheatre-wise;  every  tier  being  grotesquely  represented 
by  a  crooked  line  of  street,  so  that  the  two  public  monuments 
look  like  a  huge  pair  of  giants  dwarfing  into  insignificance 
the  poor  little  houses  and  the  tallest  poplars  in  the  valley. 
To  your  left  behold  the  observatory,  the  daylight,  pouring 
athwart  its  windows  and  galleries,  producing  such  fantastical 
strange  effects  that  the  building  looks  like  a  black  spectral 
skeleton.  Further  yet  in  the  distance  rises  the  elegant  lan- 
tern tower  of  the  Invalides,  soaring  up  between  the  bluish 
pile  of  the  Luxembourg  and  the  gray  tours  of  Saint-Sulpice. 
From  this  standpoint  the  lines  of  the  architecture  are 
blended  with  green  leaves  and  gray  shadows,  and  change 
every  moment  with  every  aspect  of  the  heavens,  every  altera- 
tion of  light  or  color  in  the  sky.  Afar,  the  skyey  spaces 
themselves  seem  to  be  full  of  buildings;  near,  wind  the  ser- 
pentine curves  of  waving  trees  and  green  footpaths. 

Away  to  your  right,  through  a  great  gap  in  this  singular 
landscape,  you  see  the  canal  Saint-Martin,  a  long  pale  stripe 
with  its  edging  of  reddish  stone  quays  and  fringes  of  lime 
avenue.  The  long  rows  of  buildings  beside  it,  in  genuine 
Eoman  style,  are  the  public  granaries. 

Beyond,  again,  on  the  very  last  plane  of  all,  see  the  smoke- 
dimmed  slopes  of  Belleville  covered  with  houses  and  wind- 
mills, which  blend  their  freaks  of  outline  with  the  chance 
effects  of  cloud.  And  still,  between  that  horizon,  vague  as 
some  childish  recollection,  and  the  serried  range  of  roofs  in 
the  valley,  a  whole  city  lies  out  of  sight :  a  huge  city,  en- 
gulfed, as  it  were,  in  a  vast  hollow  between  the  pinnacles  of 
the  Hopital  de  la  Pitie  and  the  ridge  line  of  the  Cimetiere 
de  1'Est,  between  suffering  on  the  one  hand  and  death  on  the 
other;  a  city  sending  up  a  smothered  roar  like  ocean  grum- 
bling at  the  foot  of  a  cliff,  as  if  to  let  you  know  that  "I  am 
here !" 

When  the  sunlight  pours  like  a  flood  over  this  strip  of 


118  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

Paris,  purifying  and  ethereal  izing  the  outlines,  kindling  an- 
swering lights  here  and  there  in  the  window  panes,  brighten- 
ing the  red  tiles,  flaming  about  the  golden  crosses,  whitening 
walls  and  transforming  the  atmosphere  into  a  gauzy  veil,  call- 
ing up  rich  contrasts  of  light  and  fantastic  shadow;  when 
the  sky  is  blue  and  earth  quivers  in  the  heat,  and  the  bell? 
are  pealing,  then  you  shall  see  one  of  the  eloquent  fairj 
scenes  which  stamp  themselves  for  ever  on  the  imaginations 
a  scene  that  shall  find  as  fanatical  worshipers  as  the  won- 
drous views  of  Naples  and  Byzantium  or  the  isles  of  Florida. 
Nothing  is  wanting  to  complete  the  harmony,  the  murmur 
of  the  world  of  men  and  the  idyllic  quiet  of  solitude,  the 
voices  of  a  million  human  creatures  and  the  voice  of  God. 
There  lies  a  whole  capital  beneath  the  peaceful  cypresses  of 
Pere-Lachaise. 

The  landscape  lay  in  all  its  beauty,  sparkling  in  the  spring 
sunlight,  as  I  stood  looking  out  over  it  one  morning,  my  back 
against  a  huge  elm-tree  that  flung  its  yellow  flowers  to  the 
wind.  And  at  the  sight  of  the  rich  and  glorious  view  before 
me,  I  thought  bitterly  of  the  scorn  with  which  even  in  our 
literature  we  affect  to  hold  this  land  of  ours,  and  poured 
maledictions  on  the  pitiable  plutocrats  who  fall  out  of  love 
with  fair  France,  and  spend  their  gold  to  acquire  the  right 
of  sneering  at  their  own  country,  by  going  through  Italy  at 
a  gallop  and  inspecting  that  desecrated  land  through  an  opera- 
glass.  I  cast  loving  eyes  on  modern  Paris.  I  was  beginning 
to  dream  dreams,  when  the  sound  of  a  kiss  disturbed  the  soli- 
tude and  put  philosophy  to  flight.  Down  the  sidewalk,  along 
the  steep  bank,  above  the  rippling  water,  I  saw  beyond  the 
Ponte  des  Gobelins  the  figure  of  a  woman,  dressed  with 
the  daintiest  simplicity ;  she  was  still  young,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  and  the  blithe  gladness  of  the  landscape  was  reflected 
in  her  sweet  face.  Her  companion,  a  handsome  young  man, 
had  just  set  down  a  little  boy.  A  prettier  child  has  never 
been  seen,  and  to  this  day  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the 
little  one  or  his  mother  who  received  the  kiss.  In  their  young 
faces,  in  their  eyes,  their  smile,  their  every  movement,  you 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  119 

could  read  the  same  deep  and  tender  thought.  Their  arms 
were  interlaced  with  such  glad  swiftness;  they  drew  close  to- 
gether with  such  marvelous  unanimity  of  impulse  that,  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  themselves,  they  did  not  so  much  as  see 
me.  A  second  child,  however — a  little  girl,  who  had  turned 
her  back  upon  them  in  sullen  discontent— threw  me  a  glance, 
and  the  expression  of  her  eyes  startled  me.  She  was  as  pretty 
and  as  engaging  as  the  little  brother  whom  she  left  to  run 
about  by  himself,  sometimes  before,  sometimes  after  their 
mother  and  her  companion;  but  her  charm  was  less  childish, 
and  now.,  as  she  stood  mute  and  motionless,  her  attitude  and 
demeanor  suggested  a  torpid  snake.  There  was  something 
indescribably  mechanical  in  the  way  in  which  the  pretty 
woman  and  her  companion  paced  up  and  down.  In  absence 
of  mind,  probably,  they  were  content  to  walk  to  and  fro  be- 
tween the  little  bridge  and  a  carriage  that  stood  waiting  near- 
by at  a  corner  in  the  boulevard,  turning,  stopping  short  now 
and  again,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  or  breaking  into 
laughter  as  their  casual  talk  grew  lively  or  languid,  grave  or 

gay- 

I  watched  this  delicious  picture  a  while  from  my  hiding- 
place  by  the  great  elm-tree,  and  should  have  turned  away  no 
doubt  and  respected  their  privacy,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a 
chance  discovery.  In  the  face  of  the  brooding,  silent,  elder 
child  I  saw  traces  of  thought  overdeep  for  her  age.  When  her 
mother  and  the  young  man  at  her  side  turned  and  came  near, 
her  head  was  frequently  lowered ;  the  furtive  sidelong  glances 
of  intelligence  that  she-  gave  the  pair  and  the  child  her 
brother  were  nothing  less  than  extraordinary.  Sometimes 
the  pretty  woman  or  her  friend  would  stroke  the  little  boy's 
fair  curls,  or  lay  a  caressing  finger  against  the  baby  throat 
or  the  white  collar  as  he  played  at  keeping  step  with  them; 
and  no  words  can  describe  the  shrewd  subtlety,  the  ingenuous 
malice,  the  fierce  intensity  which  lighted  up  that  pallid  little 
face  with  the  faint  circles  already  round  the  eyes.  Truly  there 
was  a  man's  power  of  passion  in  that  strange-looking,  delicate 
little  girl.  Here  were  traces  of  suffering  or  of  thought  in  her ; 


120  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

and  which  is  the  more  certain  token  of  death  when  life  is  in 
blossom — physical  suffering,  or  the  malady  of  too  early 
thought  preying  upon  a  soul  as  yet  in  bud?  Perhaps  a 
mother  knows,  ior  my  own  part,  I  know  of  nothing  more 
dreadful  to  see  than  an  old  man's  thoughts  on  a  child's  fore- 
head; even  blasphemy  from  girlish  lips  is  less  monstrous. 

The  almost  stupid  stolidity  of  this  child  who  had  begun 
to  think  already,  her  rare  gestures,  everything  about  her,  in- 
terested me.  I  scrutinized  her  curiously.  Then  the  common 
whim  of  the  observer  drew  me  to  compare  her  with  her 
brother,  and  to  note  their  likeness  and  unlikeness. 

Her  brown  hair  and  dark  eyes  and  look  of  precocious  power 
made  a  rich  contrast  with  the  little  one's  fair  curled  head 
and  sea-green  eyes  and  winning  helplessness.  She,  perhaps, 
was  seven  or  eight  years  of  age;  the  boy  was  full  four  years 
younger.  Both  children  were  dressed  alike;  but  here  again, 
looking  closely,  I  noticed  a  difference.  It  was  very  slight, 
a  little  thing  enough;  but  in  the  light  of  after  events  I  saw 
that  it  meant  a  whole  romance  in  the  past,  a  whole  tragedy 
to  come.  The  little  brown-haired  maid  wore  a  linen  collar 
with  a  plain  hem,  her  brother's  was  edged  with  dainty  em- 
broidery, that  was  all;  but  therein  lay  the  confession  of  a 
heart's  secret,  a  tacit  preference  which  a  child  can  read  in 
the  mother's  inmost  soul  as  clearly  as  if  the  spirit  of  God  re- 
vealed it.  The  fair-haired  child,  careless  and  glad,  looked 
almost  like  a  girl,  his  skin  was  so  fair  and  fresh,  his  move- 
ments so  graceful,  his  look  so  sweet;  while  his  older  sister, 
in  spite  of  her  energy,  in  spite  of  the  beauty  of  her  features 
and  her  dazzling  complexion,  looked  like  a  sickly  little  boy. 
In  her  bright  eyes  there  was  none  of  the  humid  softness  which 
lends  such  charm'  to  children's  faces;  they  seemed,  like 
courtiers'  eyes,  to  be  dried  by  some  inner  fire;  and  in  her 
pallor  there  was  a  certain  swarthy  olive  tint,  the  sign  of 
vigorous  character.  Twice  her  little  brother  came  to  her, 
holding  out  a  tiny  hunting-horn  with  a  touching  charm,  a 
winning  look,  and  wistful  expression,  which  would  have  sent 
Charlet  into  ecstasies,  but  she  only  scowled  in  answer  to  his 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  121 

"Here,  Helene,  will  you  take  it?"  so  persuasively  spoken. 
The  little  girl,  so  sombre  and  vehement  beneath  her  apparent 
indifference,  shuddered,  and  even  flushed  red  when  her 
brother  came  near  her ;  but  the  little  one  seemed  not  to  notice 
his  sister's  dark  mood,  and  his  unconsciousness,  blended  with 
earnestness,  marked  a  final  difference  in  character  between  the 
child  and  the  little  girl,  whose  brow  was  overclouded  already 
by  the  gloom  of  a  man's  knowledge  and  cares. 

"Mamma,  Helene  will  not  play,"  cried  the  little  one,  seiz- 
ing an  opportunity  to  complain  while  the  two  stood  silent 
on  the  Pont  des  Gobelins. 

"Let  her  alone,  Charles;  you  know  very  well  that  she  is 
always  cross." 

Tears  sprang  to  Helene's  eyes  at  the  words  so  thoughtlessly 
uttered  by  her  mother  as  she  turned  abruptly  to  the  young 
man  by  her  side.  The  child  devoured  the  speech  in  silence, 
but  she  gave  her  brother  one  of  those  sagacious  looks  that 
seemed  inexplicable  to  me,  glancing  with  a  sinister  expression 
from  the  bank  where  he  stood  to  the  Bievre,  then  at  the 
bridge  and  the  view,  and  then  at  me. 

I  was  afraid  lest  my  presence  should  disturb  the  happy 
couple;  I  slipped  away  and  took  refuge  behind  a  thicket  of 
elder  trees,  which  completely  screened  me  from  all  eyes.  Sit- 
ting quietly  on  the  summit  of  the  bank,  I  watched  the  ever- 
changing  landscape  and  the  fierce-looking  little  girl,  for  with 
my  head  almost  on  a  level  with  the  boulevard  I  could  still 
see  her  through  the  leaves.  Helene  seemed  uneasy  over  my 
disappearance,  her  dark  eyes  looked  for  me  down  the  alley 
and  behind  the  trees  with  indefinable  curiosity.  What  was 
I  to  her  ?  Then  Charles'  baby  laughter  rang  out  like  a  bird's 
song  in  the  silence.  The  tall,  young  man,  with  the  same  fair 
hair,  was  dancing  him  in  his  arms,  showering  kisses  upon 
him,  and  the  meaningless  baby  words  of  that  "little  lan- 
guage" which  rises  to  our  lips  when  we  play  with  children. 
The  mother  looked  on  smiling,  now  and  then,  doubtless,  put- 
ting in  some  low  word  that  came  up  from  the  heart,  for  her 
companion  would  stop  short  in  his  full  happiness,  and  the 


122  A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

blue  eyes  that  turned  towards  her  were  full  of  glowing  light 
and  love  and  worship.  Their  voices,  blending  with  the  child's 
voice,  reached  me  with  a  vague  sense  of  a  caress.  The  three 
figures,  charming  in  themselves,  composed  a  lovely  scene  in 
a  glorious  landscape,  filling  it  with  a  pervasive  unimaginable 
grace.  A  delicately  fair  woman,  radiant  with  smiles,  a  child 
of  love,  a  young  man  with  the  irresistible  charm  of  youth, 
a  cloudless  sky;  nothing  was  wanting  in  nature  to  complete 
a  perfect  harmony  for  the  delight  of  the  soul.  I  found  my- 
self smiling  as  if  their  happiness  had  been  my  own. 

The  clocks  struck  nine.  The  young  man  gave  a  tender 
embrace  to  his  companion,  and  went  towards  the  tilbury 
which  an  old  servant  drove  slowly  to  meet  him.  The  lady 
had  grown  grave  and  almost  sad.  The  child's  prattle  sounded 
unchecked  through  the  last  farewell  kisses.  Then  the  tilbury 
rolled  away,  and  the  lady  stood  motionless,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  wheels,  watching  the  little  cloud  of  dust  raised 
by  its  passage  along  the  road.  Charles  ran  down  the  green 
pathway  back  to  the  bridge  to  join  his  sister.  I  heard  his 
silver  voice  calling  to  her. 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  say  good-bye  to  my  good 
friend?"  cried  he. 

Helene  looked  up.  Never  surely  did  such  hatred  gleam 
from  a  child's  eyes  as  from  hers  at  that  moment  when  she 
turned  them  on  the  brother  who  stood  beside  her  on  the  bank 
side.  She  gave  him  an  angry  push.  Charles  lost  his  footing 
on  the  steep  slope,  stumbled  over  the  roots  of  a  tree,  and  fell 
headlong  forwards,  dashing  his  forehead  on  the  sharp-edged 
stones  of  the  embankment,  and,  covered  with  blood,  disap- 
peared over  the  edge  into  the  muddy  river.  The  turbid 
water  closed  over  a  fair,  bright  head  with  a  shower  of 
splashes;  one  sharp  shriek  after  another  rang  in  my  ears; 
then  the  sounds  were  stifled  by  the  thick  stream,  and  the  poor 
child  sank  with  a  dull  sound  as  if  a  stone  had  been  thrown 
into  the  water.  The  accident  had  happened  with  more  than 
lightning  swiftness.  I  sprang  down  the  footpath,  and 
Helene,  stupefied  with  horror,  shrieked  again  and  again : 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  123 

"Mamma !  mamma !" 

The  mother  was  there  at  my  side.  She  had  flown  to  the 
spot  like  a  bird.  But  neither  a  mother's  eyes  nor  mine  could 
find  the  exact  place  where  the  little  one  had  gone  under. 
There  was  a  wide  space  of  black  hurrying  water,  and  below 
in  the  bed  of  the  Bievre  ten  feet  of  mud.  There  was  not  the- 
smallest  possibility  of  saving  the  child.  No  one  is  stirring 
at  that  hour  on  a  Sunday  morning,  and  there  are  neither 
barges  nor  anglers  on  the  Bievre.  There  was  not  a  creature 
in  sight,  not  a  pole  to  plumb  the  filthy  stream.  What  need 
was  there  for  me  to  explain  how  the  ugly-looking  accident 
had  happened — accident  or  misfortune,  whichever  it  might 
be?  Had  Helene  avenged  her  father?  Her  jealousy  surely 
was  the  sword  of  God.  And  yet  when  I  looked  at  the  mother 
I  shivered.  What  fearful  ordeal  awaited  her  when  she  should 
return  to  her  husband,  the  judge  before  whom  she  must  stand 
all  her  days?  And  here  with  her  was  an  inseparable,  incor- 
ruptible witness.  A  child's  forehead  is  transparent,  a  child's 
face  hides  no  thoughts,  and  a  lie,  like  a  red  flame  set  within* 
glows  out  in  red  that  colors  even  the  eyes.  But  the  unhappy 
woman  had  not  thought  as  yet  of  the  punishment  awaiting 
her  at  home ;  she  was  staring  into  the  Bievre. 

Such  an  event  must  inevitably  send  ghastly  echoes 
through  a  woman's  life,  and  here  is  one  of  the  most  terrible 
of  the  reverberations  that  troubled  Julie's  love  from  time  to 
time. 

Several  years  had  gone  by.  The  Marquis  de  Vandenesse 
wore  mourning  for  his  father,  and  succeeded  to  his  estates. 
One  evening,  therefore,  after  dinner  it  happened  that  a 
notary  was  present  in  his  house.  This  was  no  pettifogging 
lawyer  after  Sterne's  pattern,  but  a  very  solid,  substantial 
notary  of  Paris,  one  of  your  estimable  men  who  do  a  stupid 
thing  pompously,  set  down  a  foot  heavily  upon  your  private 
corn,  and  then  ask  what  in  the  world  th'ere  is  to  cry  out 
about?  If,  by  accident,  they  come  to  know  the  full  extent 
of  the  enormity,  "Upon  my  word,"  cry  they,  "I  hadn't  a  no- 


124  A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY 

tion !"  This  was  a  well-intentioned  ass,  in  short,  who  could 
see  nothing  in  life  but  deeds  and  documents. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  been  dining  with  M.  de  Vandenesse ; 
her  husband  had  excused  himself  before  dinner  was  over,  for 
he  was  taking  his  two  children  to  the  play.  They  were  to 
go  to  some  Boulevard  theatre  or  other,  to  the  Ambigu- 
Comique  or  the  Gaiete,  sensational  melodrama  being  judged 
harmless  here  in  Paris,  and  suitable  pabulum  for  childhood, 
because  innocence  is  always  triumphant  in  the  fifth  act.  The 
boy  and  girl  had  teased  their  father  to  be  there  before  the 
curtain  rose,  so  he  had  left  the  table  before  dessert  was 
served. 

But  the  notary,  the  imperturbable  notary,  utterly  incapable 
of  asking  himself  why  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  should  have  al- 
lowed her  husband  and  children  to  go  without  her  to  the 
play,  sat  on  as  if  he  were  screwed  to  his  chair.  Dinner  was 
over,  dessert  had  been  prolonged  by  discussion,  and  coffee 
delayed.  All  these  things  consumed  time,  doubtless  precious, 
and  drew  impatient  movements  from  that  charming  woman; 
she  looked  not  unlike  a  thoroughbred  pawing  the  ground  be- 
fore a  race;  but  the  man  of  law,  to  whom  horses  and  women 
were  equally  unknown  quantities,  simply  thought  the  Mar- 
quise a  very  lively  and  sparkling  personage.  So  enchanted 
was  he  to  be  in  the  company  of  a  woman  of  fashion  and  a 
political  celebrity,  that  he  was  exerting  himself  to  shine  in 
conversation,  and  taking  the  lady's  forced  smile  for  approba- 
tion, talked  on  with  unflagging  spirit,  till  the  Marquise  was 
almost  out  of  patience. 

The  master  of  the  house,  in  concert  with  the  lady,  had 
more  than  once  maintained  an  eloquent  silence  when  the  law- 
yer expected  a  civil  reply;  but  these  significant  pauses  were 
employed  by  the  talkative  nuisance  in  looking  for  anecdotes 
in  the  fire.  M.  de  Vandenesse  had  recourse  to  his  watch; 
the  charming  Marquise  tried  the  experiment  of  fastening  her 
bonnet  strings,  and  made  as  if  she  would  go.  But  she  did 
not  go,  and  the  notary,  blind  and  deaf,  and  delighted  with 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  125 

himself,  was  quite  convinced  that  his  interesting  conversa- 
tional powers  were  sufficient  to  k^eep  the  lady  on  the  spot. 

"I  shall  certainly  have  that  woman  for  a  client,"  said  he 
to  himself. 

Meanwhile  the  Marquise  stood,  putting  on  her  gloves,  twist- 
ing her  fingers,  looking  from  the  equally  impatient  Marquis 
de  Vandenesse  to  the  lawyer,  still  pounding  away.  At  every 
pause  in  the  worthy  man's  fire  of  witticisms  the  charming 
pair  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  their  looks  said  plainly,  "At 
last !  He  is  really  going !" 

Nothing  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  nightmare  which  could 
only  end  in  exasperating  the  two  impassioned  creatures,  on 
whom  the  lawyer  had  something  of  the  fascinating  effect  of 
a  snake  on  a  pair  of  birds ;  before  long  they  would  be  driven 
to  cut  him  short. 

The  clever  notary  was  giving  them  the  history  of  the  dis- 
creditable ways  in  which  one  du  Tillet  (a  stockbroker  then 
much  in  favor)  had  laid  the  foundations  of  his  fortune;  all 
the  ins  and  outs  of  the  whole  disgraceful  business  were  ac- 
curately put  before  them;  and  the  narrator  was  in  the  very 
middle  of  his  tale  when  M.  de  Vandenesse  heard  the  clock 
strike  nine.  Then  it  became  clear  to  him  that  his  legal  ad- 
viser was  very  emphatically  an  idiot  who  must  be  sent  forth- 
with about  his  business.  He  stopped  him  resolutely  with  a 
gesture. 

"The  tongs,  my  lord  Marquis?"  queried  the  notary,  hand- 
ing the  object  in  question  to  his  client. 

"No,  monsieur,  I  am  compelled  to  send  you  away.  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  wishes  to  join  her  children,  and  I  shall  have  the 
honor  of  escorting  her." 

"Nine  o'clock  already !  Time  goes  like  a  shadow  in  pleas- 
ant company,"  said  the  man  of  law,  who  had  talked  on  end 
for  the  past  hour. 

He  looked  for  his  hat,  planted  himself  before  the  fire,  with 
a  suppressed  hiccough;  and,  without  heeding  the  Marquise's 
withering  glances,  spoke  once  more  to  his  impatient 
client : 


126  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"To  sum  up,  my  lord  Marquis.  Business  before  all  things. 
To-morrow,  then,  we  must  subpoena  your  brother;  we  will 
proceed  to  make  out  the  inventory,  and  faith,  after  that " 

So  ill  had  the  lawyer  understood  his  instructions,  that  his 
impression  was  the  exact  opposite  to  the  one  intended.  It 
was  a  delicate  matter,  and  Vandenesse,  in  spite  of  himself, 
began  to  put  the  thick-headed  notary  right.  The  discussion 
which  followed  took  up  a  certain  amount  of  time. 

"Listen,"  the  diplomatist  said  at  last  at  a  sign  from  the 
lady,  "you  are  puzzling  my  brains;  come  back  to-morrow  at 
nine  o'clock,  and  bring  my  solicitor  with  you." 

"But  as  I  have  the  honor  of  observing,  my  lord  Marquis, 
we  are  not  certain  of  finding  M.  Desroches  to-morrow,  and 
if  the  writ  is  not  issued  by  noon  to-morrow,  the  days  of  grace 
will  expire,  and  then " 

As  he  spoke,  a  carriage  entered  the  courtyard.  The  poor 
woman  turned  sharply  away  at  the  sound  to  hide  the  tears 
in  her  eyes.  The  Marquis  rang  to  give  the  servant  orders  to 
say  that  he  was  not  at  home;  but  before  the  footman  could 
answer  the  bell,  the  lady's  husband  reappeared.  He  had  re- 
turned unexpectedly  from  the  Gaiete,  and  held  both  children 
by  the  hand.  The  little  girl's  eyes  were  red;  the  boy  was 
fretful  and  very  cross. 

"What  can  have  happened?"  asked  the  Marquise. 

"I  will  tell  you  by  and  by,"  said  the  General,  and  catch- 
ing a  glimpse  through  an  open  door  of  newspapers  on  the 
table  in  the  adjoining  sitting-room,  he  went  off.  The  Mar- 
quise, at  the  end  of  her  patience,  flung  herself  down  on  the 
sofa  in  desperation.  The  notary,  thinking  it  incumbent  upon 
him  to  be  amiable  with  the  children,  spoke  to  the  little  boy 
in  an  insinuating  tone: 

"Well,  my  little  man,  and  what  is  there  on  at  the 
theatre?" 

"The  Valley  of  the  Torrent/'  said  Gustave  sulkily. 

"Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  declared  the  notary,  "authors 
nowadays  are  half  crazy.  The  Valley  of  the  Torrent!  Why 
not  the  Torrent  of  the  Valley  ?  It  is  conceivable  that  a  valley 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  127 

might  be  without  a  torrent  in  it;  now  if  they  had  said  the 
Torrent  of  the  Valley,  that  would  have  been  something  clear, 
something  precise,  something  definite  and  comprehensible. 
But  never  mind  that.  Now,  how  is  a  drama  to  take  place  in 
a  torrent  and  in  a  valley?  You  will  tell  me  that  in  these 
days  the  principal  attraction  lies  in  the  scenic  effect,  and 
the  title  is  a  capital  advertisement. — And  did  you  enjoy  it, 
my  little  friend?"  he  continued,  sitting  down  before  the 
child. 

When  the  notary  pursued  his  inquiries  as  to  the  possibili- 
ties of  a  drama  in  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  the  little  girl  turned 
slowly  away  and  began  to  cry.  Her  mother  did  not  notice 
this  in  her  intense  annoyance. 

"Oh!  yes,  monsieur,  I  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  said  the 
child.  "There  was  a  dear  little  boy  in  the  play,  and  he  was 
all  alone  in  the  world,  because  his  papa  could  not  have  been 
his  real  papa.  And  when  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  bridge 
over  the  torrent,  a  big,  naughty  man  with  a  beard,  dressed 
all  in  black,  came  and  threw  him  into  the  water.  And  then 
Helene  began  to  sob  and  cry,  and  everybody  scolded  us,  and 
father  brought  us  away  quick,  quick " 

M.  de  Vandenesse  and  the  Marquise  looked  on  in  dull 
amazement,  as  if  all  power  to  think  or  move  had  been  sud- 
denly paralyzed. 

"Do  be  quiet,  Gustave!"  cried  the  General.  "I  told  you 
that  you  were  not  to  talk  about  anything  that  happened  at 
the  play,  and  you  have  forgotten  what  I  said  already." 

"Oh,  my  lord  Marquis,  your  lordship  must  excuse  him," 
cried  the  notary.  "I  ought  not  to  have  asked  questions,  but 
I  had  no  idea " 

"He  ought  not  to  have  answered  them,"  said  the  General, 
looking  sternly  at  the  child. 

It  seemed  that  the  Marquise  and  the  master  of  the  house 
both  perfectly  understood  why  the  children  had  come  back 
so  suddenly.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  looked  at  her  daughter,  and 
rose  as  if  to  go  to  her,  but  a  terrible  convulsion  passed  over 
her  face,  and  all  that  could  be  read  in  it  was  relentless  se- 
verity. 


128  A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY 

"That  will  do,  Helene,"  she  said.  "Go  into  the  other 
room,  and  leave  off  crying." 

"What  can  she  have  done,  poor  child!"  asked  the  notary, 
thinking  to  appease  the  mother's  anger  and  to  stop  Helene's 
tears  at  one  stroke.  "So  pretty  as  she  is,  she  must  be  as 
good  as  can  be;  never  anything  but  a  joy  to  her  mother,  I 
will  be  bound.  Isn't  that  so,  my  little  girl  ?" 

Helene  cowered,  looked  at  her  mother,  dried  her  eyes, 
struggled  for  composure,  and  took  refuge  in  the  next  room. 

"And  you,  madame,  are  too  good  a  mother  not  to  love  all 
your  children  alike.  -You  are  too  good  a  woman,  besides, 
to  have  any  of  those  lamentable  preferences  which  have  such 
fatal  effects,  as  we  lawyers  have  only  too  much  reason  to 
know.  Society  goes  through  our  hands;  we  see  its  passions 
in  that  most  revolting  form,  greed.  Here  it  is  the  mother 
of  a  family  trying  to  disinherit  her  husband's  chil- 
dren to  enrich  the  others  whom  she  loves  better;  or  it  is  the 
husband  who  tries  to  leave  all  his  property  to  the  child  who 
has  done  his  best  to  earn  his  mother's  hatred.  And  then 
begin  quarrels,  and  fears,  and  deeds,  and  defeasances,  and 
sham  sales,  and  trusts,  and  all  the  rest  of  it;  a  pretty  mess, 
in  fact,  it  is  pitiable,  upon  my  honor,  pitiable !  There  are 
fathers  that  will  spend  their  whole  lives  in  cheating  their 
children  and  robbing  their  wives.  Yes,  robbing  is  the  only 
word  for  it.  We  were  talking  of  tragedy ;  oh !  I  can  assure 
you  of  this,  that  if  we  were  at  liberty  to  tell  the  real  reasons 
of  some  donations  that  I  know  of,  our  modern  dramatists 
would  have  the  material  for  some  sensational  bourgeois 
dramas.  How  the  wife  manages  to  get  her  way,  as  she  in- 
variably does,  I  cannot  think;  for  in  spite  of  appearances, 
and  in  spite  of  their  weakness,  it  is  always  the  women  who 
carry  the  day.  Ah!  by  the  way,  they  don't  take  me  in.  I 
always  know  the  reason  at  the  bottom  of  those  predilections 
which  the  world  politely  styles  'unaccountable.'  But  in  jus- 
tice to  the  husbands,  I  must  say  that  they  never  discover  any- 
thing. You  will  tell  me  that  this  is  a  merciful  dispens " 

Helene  had  come   back  to   the   drawing-rooin  with  her 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  129 

father,  and  was  listening  attentively.  So  well  did  she  under- 
stand all  that  was  said,  that  she  gave  her  mother  a  frightened 
glance,  feeling,  with  a  child's  quick  instinct,  that  these  re- 
marks would  aggravate  the  punishment  hanging  over  her. 
The  Marquise  turned  her  white  face  to  Vandenesse;  and, 
with  terror  in  her  eyes,  indicated  her  husband,  who  stood 
with  his  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  flower  pattern  of  the  car- 
pet. The  diplomatist,  accomplished  man  of  the  world  though 
he  was,  could  no  longer  contain  his  wrath,  he  gave  the  man 
of  law  a  withering  glance. 

"Step  this  way,  sir,"  he  said,  and  he  went  hurriedly  to  the 
door  of  the  ante-chamber;  the  notary  left  his  sentence  half 
finished,  and  followed,  quaking,  and  the  husband  and  wife 
were  left  together. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  the  Marquis  de  Vandenesse — he  banged 
the  drawing-room  door,  and  spoke  with  concentrated  rage — 
"ever  since  dinner  you  have  done  nothing  but  make  blunders 
and  talk  folly.  For  heaven's  sake,  go.  You  will  make  the 
most  frightful  mischief  before  you  have  done.  If  you  are 
a  clever  man  in  your  profession,  keep  to  your  profession ;  and 
if  by  any  chance  you  should  go  into  society,  endeavor  to  be 
more  circumspect." 

With  that  he  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  and  did  not 
even  wish  the  notary  good-evening.  For  a  moment  that 
worthy  stood  dumfounded,  bewildered,  utterly  at  a  loss. 
Then,  when  the  buzzing  in  his  ears  subsided,  he  thought  he 
heard  some  one  moaning  in  the  next  room.  Footsteps  came 
and  went,  and  bells  were  violently  rung.  He  was  by  no 
means  anxious  to  meet  the  Marquis  again,  and  found  the 
use  of  his  legs  to  make  good  his  escape,  only  to  run  against 
a  hurrying  crowd  of  servants  at  the  door. 

"Just  the  way  with  all  these  grand  folk,"  said  he  to  him- 
self outside  in  the  street  as  he  looked  about  for  a  cab.  "They 
lead  you  on  to  talk  with  compliments,  and  you  think  you 
are  amusing  them.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  treat  you  inso- 
lently; put  you  at  a  distance;  even  put  you  out  at  the  door 
without  scruple.  After  all,  I  talked  very  cleverly,  I  said 
VOL.  5—33 


130 

nothing  but  what  was  sensible,  well  turned,  and  discreet ;  and, 
upon  my  word,  he  advises  me  to  be  more  circumspect  in  fu- 
ture. 1  will  take  good  care  of  that !  Eh !  the  mischief  take 
it !  I  am  a  notary  and  a  member  of  my  chamber ! — Pshaw  ! 
it  was  an  ambassador's  fit  of  temper,  nothing  is  sacred  for 
people  of  that  kind.  To-morrow  he  shall  explain  what  he 
meant  by  saying  that  I  had  done  nothing  but  blunder  and 
talk  nonsense  in  his  house.  I  will  ask  him  for  an  explana- 
tion— that  is,  I  will  ask  him  to  explain  my  mistake.  After 

all  is  done  and  said,  I  am  in  the  wrong  perhaps Upon 

my  word,  it  is  very  good  of  me  to  cudgel  my  brains  like  this. 
What  business  is  it  of  mine?" 

So  the  notary  went  home  and  laid  the  enigma  before  his 
spouse,  with  a  complete  account  of  the  evening's  events  re- 
lated in  sequence. 

And  she  replied,  "My  dear  Crottat,  His  Excellency  was 
perfectly  right  when  he  said  that  you  had  done  nothing  but 
blunder  and  talk  folly." 

"Why?" 

"My  dear,  if  I  told  you  why,  it  would  not  prevent  you 
from  doing  the  same  thing  somewhere  else  to-morrow.  1  tell 
you  again — talk  of  nothing  but  business  when  you  go  out; 
that  is  my  advice  to  you." 

"If  you  will  not  tell  me,  I  shall  ask  him  to-morrow " 

"Why,  dear  me !  the  veriest  noodle  is  careful  to  hide  a 
thing  of  that  kind,  and  do  you  suppose  that  an  ambassador 
will  tell  you  about  it?  Really,  Crottat,  I  have  never  known 
you  so  utterly  devoid  of  common-sense." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear." 

V. 

TWO  MEETINGS 

ONE  of  Napoleon's  orderly  staff-officers,  who  shall  be  known  in 
this  history  only  as  the  General  or  the  Marquis,  had  come 
to  spend  the  spring  at  Versailles.  He  had  made  a  large  for- 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  131 

tune  under  the  Restoration ;  and  as  his  place  at  Court  would 
not  allow  him  to  go  very  far  from  Paris,  he  had  taken  a  coun- 
try house  between  the  church  and  the  harrier  of  Montreuil, 
on  the  road  that  leads  to  the  Avenue  de  Saint-Cloud. 

The  house  had  been  built  originally  as  a  retreat  for  the 
short-lived  loves  of  some  grand  seigneur.  The  grounds  were 
very  large;  the  gardens  on  either  side  extending  from  the 
first  houses  of  Montreuil  to  the  thatched  cottages  near  the 
barrier,  so  that  the  owner  could  enjoy  all  the  pleasures  of 
solitude  with  the  city  almost  at  his  gates.  By  an  odd  piece 
of  contradiction,  the  whole  front  of  the  house  itself,  with 
the  principal  entrance,  gave  directly  upon  the  street.  Per- 
haps in  time  past  it  was  a  tolerably  lonely  road,  and  in- 
deed this  theory  looks  all  the  more  probable  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it;  for  not  so  very  far  away,  on  this  same  road, 
Louis  Quinze  built  a  delicious  summer  villa  for  Mile,  de 
Romans,  and  the  curious  in  such  things  will  discover  that 
the  wayside  casinos  are  adorned  in  a  style  that  recalls  tradi- 
tions of  the  ingenious  taste  displayed  in  debauchery  by  our 
ancestors  who,,  with  all  the  license  laid  to  their  charge,  sought 
to  invest  it  with  secrecy  and  mystery. 

One  winter  evening  the  family  were  by  themselves  in  the 
lonely  house.  The  servants  had  received  permission  to  go  to 
Versailles  to  celebrate  the  wedding  of  one  of  their  number. 
It  was  Christmas  time,  and  the  holiday  makers,  presuming 
upon  the  double  festival,  did  not  scruple  to  outstay  their 
leave  of  absence;  yet,  as  the  General  was  well  known  to  be  a 
man  of  his  word,  the  culprits  felt  some  twinges  of  con- 
science as  they  danced  on  after  the  hour  of  return.  The 
clocks  struck  eleven,  and  still  there  was  no  sign  of  the  ser- 
vants. 

A  deep  silence  prevailed  over  the  country-side,  broken  only 
by  the  sound  of  the  northeast  wind  whistling  through  the 
black  branches,  wailing  about  the  house,  dying  in  gusts  along 
the  corridors.  The  hard  frost  had  purified  the  air,  and  held 
the  earth  in  its  grip;  the  roads  gave  back  every  sound  with 
the  hard  metallic  ring  which  always  strikes  us  with  a  new 


132  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

surprise;  the  heavy  footsteps  of  some  belated  reveler,  or  a 
cab  returning  to  Paris,  could  be  heard  for  a  long  distance 
with  unwonted  distinctness.  Out  in  the  courtyard  a  few 
dead  leaves  set  a-dancing  by  some  eddying  gust  found  a 
voice  for  the  night  which  fain  had  been  silent.  It  was,  in 
fact,  one  of  those  sharp,  frosty  evenings  that  wring  barren 
expressions  of  pity  from  our  selfish  ease  for  wayfarers  and 
the  poor,  and  fills  us  with  a  luxurious  sense  of  the  comfort 
of  the  fireside. 

But  the  family  party  in  the  salon  at  that  hour  gave  not 
a  thought  to  absent  servants  nor  houseless  folk,  nor  to  the 
gracious  charm  with  which  a  winter  evening  sparkles.  N"o 
one  played  the  philosopher  out  of  season.  Secure  in  the 
protection  of  an  old  soldier,  women  and  children  gave  them- 
selves up  to  the  joys  of  home  life,  so  delicious  when  there  is 
no  restraint  upon  feeling;  and  talk  and  play  and  glances  are 
bright  with  frankness  and  affection. 

The  General  sat,  or  more  properly  speaking,  lay  buried, 
in  the  depths  of  a  huge,  high-back  armchair  by  the  hearth. 
The  heaped-up  fire  burned  scorching  clear  with  the  excessive 
cold  of  the  night.  The  good  father  leaned  his  head  slightly 
to  one  side  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  the  indolence  of 
perfect  serenity  and  a  glow  of  happiness.  The  languid,  half- 
sleepy  droop  of  his  outstretched  arms  seemed  to  complete 
his  expression  of  placid  content.  He  was  watching  his 
youngest,  a  boy  of  five  or  thereabouts,  who,  half  clad  as  he 
was,  declined  to  allow  his  mother  to  undress  him.  The  little 
one  fled  from  the  night-gown  and  cap  with  which  he  was 
threatened  now  and  again,  and  stoutly  declined  to  part  with 
his  embroidered  collar,  laughing  when  his  mother  called  to 
him,  for  he  saw  that  she  too  was  laughing  at  this  declaration 
of  infant  independence.  The  next  step  was  to  go  back  to 
a  game  of  romps  with  his  sister.  She  was  as  much  a  child 
as  he,  but  more  mischievous;  and  she  was  older  by  two  years, 
and  could  speak  distinctly  already,  whereas  his  inarticulate 
words  and  confused  ideas  were  a  puzzle  even  to  his  parents. 
Little  Moina's  playfulness,  somewhat  coquettish  already,  pro- 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  133 

yoked  inextinguishable  laughter,  explosions  of  merriment 
which  went  off  like  fireworks  for  no  apparent  cause.  As  they 
tumbled  about  before  the  fire,  unconcernedly  displaying  little 
plump  bodies  and  delicate  white  contours,  as  the  dark  and 
golden  curls  mingled  in  a  collision  of  rosy  cheeks  dimpled 
with  childish  glee,  a  father  surely,  a  mother  most  certainly, 
must  have  understood  those  little  souls,  and  seen  the  char- 
acter and  power  of  passion  already  developed  for  their  eyes. 
As  the  cherubs  frolicked  about,  struggling,  rolling,  and 
tumbling  without  fear  of  hurt  on  the  soft  carpet,  its  flowers 
looked  pale  beside  the  glowing  white  and  red  of  their  cheeks 
and  the  brilliant  color  of  their  shining  eyes. 

On  the  sofa  by  the  fire,  opposite  the  great  armchair,  the 
children's  mother  sat  among  a  heap  of  scattered  garments, 
with  a  little  scarlet  shoe  in  her  hand.  She  seemed  to  have 
given  herself  up  completely  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment ; 
wavering  discipline  had  relaxed  into  a  sweet  smile  engraved 
upon  her  lips.  At  the  age  of  six-and-thirty,  or  thereabouts, 
she  was  a  beautiful  woman  still,  by  reason  of  the  rare  perfec- 
tion of  the  outlines  of  her  face,  and  at  this  moment  light 
and  warmth  and  happiness  filled  it  with  preternatural 
brightness. 

Again  and  again  her  eyes  wandered  from  her  children,  and 
their  tender  gaze  was  turned  upon  her  husband's  grave  face; 
and  now  and  again  the  eyes  of  husband  and  wife  met  with 
a  silent  exchange  of  happiness  and  thoughts  from  some  inner 
depth. 

The  General's  face  was  deeply  bronzed,  a  stray  lock  of 
gray  hair  scored  shadows  on  his  forehead.  The  reckless 
courage  of  the  battlefield  could  be  read  in  the  lines  carved 
in  his  hollow  cheeks,  and  gleams  of  rugged  strength  in  the 
blue  eyes ;  clearly  the  bit  of  red  ribbon  flaunting  at  his  button- 
hole had  been  paid  for  by  hardship  and  toil.  An  inexpressi- 
ble kindliness  and  frankness  shone  out  of  the  strong,  resolute 
face  which  reflected  his  children's  merriment;  the  gray- 
haired  captain  found  it  not  so  very  hard  to  become  a  child 


134  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

again.  Is  there  not  always  a  little  love  of  children  in  the 
heart  of  a  soldier  who  has  seen  enough  of  the  seamy  side 
of  life  to  know  something  of  the  piteous  limitations  of 
strength  and  the  privileges  of  weakness? 

At  a  round  table  rather  farther  away,  in  a  circle  of  bright 
lamplight  that  dimmed  the  feebler  illumination  of  the  wax 
candles  on  the  chimney-piece,  sat  a  boy  of  thirteen,  rapidly 
turning  the  pages  of  a  thick  volume  which  he  was  reading, 
undisturbed  by  the  shouts  of  the  children.  There  was  a 
boy's  curiosity  in  his  face.  From  his  lyceens  uniform  he  was 
evidently  a  schoolboy,  and  the  book  he  was  reading  was  the 
Arabian  Nights.  Small  wonder  that  he  was  deeply  absorbed. 
He  sat  perfectly  still  in  a  meditative  attitude,  with  his  elbow 
on  the  table,  and  his  hand  propping  his  head — the  white 
fingers  contrasting  strongly  with  the  brown  hair  into  which 
they  were  thrust.  As  he  sat,  with  the  light  turned  full  upon 
his  face,  and  the  rest  of  his  body  in  shadow,  he  looked  like 
one  of  Raphael's  dark  portraits  of  himself — a  bent  head  and 
intent  eyes  filled  with  visions  of  the  future. 

Between  the  table  and  the  Marquise  a  tall,  beautiful  girl 
sat  at  her  tapestry  frame;  sometimes  she  drew  back  from  her 
work,  sometimes  she  bent  over  it,  and  her  hair,  picturesque 
in  its  ebony  smoothness  and  darkness,  caught  the  light  of 
the  lamp.  Ilelene  was  a  picture  in  herself.  In  her  beauty 
there  was  a  rare  distinctive  character  of  power  and  refine- 
ment. Though  her  hair  was  gathered  up  and  drawn  back 
from  her  face,  so  as  to  trace  a  clearly  marked  line  about  her 
head,  so  thick  and  abundant  was  it,  so  recalcitrant  to  the 
comb,  that  it  sprang  back  in  curl-tendrils  to  the  nape  of 
her  neck.  The  bountiful  line  of  eyebrows  was  evenly  marked 
out  in  dark  contrasting  outline  upon  her  pure  forehead.  On 
her  upper  lip,  beneath  the  Grecian  nose  with  its  sensitively 
perfect  curve  of  nostril,  there  lay  a  faint,  swarthy  shadow, 
the  sign-manual  of  courage;  but  the  enchanting  roundness 
of  contour,  the  frankly  innocent  expression  of  her  other 
features,  the  transparence  of  the  delicate  carnations,  the 
voluptuous  softness  of  the  lips,  the  flawless  oval  of  the  out- 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  135 

line  of  the  face,  and  with  these,  and  more  than  all  these, 
the  saintlike  expression  in  the  girlish  eyes,  gave  to  her 
vigorous  loveliness  the  distinctive  touch  of  feminine  grace, 
that  enchanting  modesty  which  we  look  for  in  these  angels 
of  peace  and  love.  Yet  there  was  no  suggestion  of  fragility 
about  her;  and,  surely,  with  so  grand  a  woman's  frame,  so 
attractive  a  face,  she  must  possess  a  corresponding  warmth 
of  heart  and  strength  of  soul. 

She  was  as  silent  as  her  schoolboy  brother.  Seemingly  a 
prey  to  the  fateful  maiden  meditations  which  baffle  a  father's 
penetration  and  even  a  mother's  sagacity,  it  was  impossible 
to  be  certain  whether  it  was  the  lamplight  that  cast  those 
shadows  that  flitted  over  her  face  like  thin  clouds  over  a 
bright  sky,  or  whether  they  were  passing  shades  of  secret  and 
painful  thoughts. 

Husband  and  wife  had  quite  forgotten  the  two  older  chil- 
dren at  that  moment,  though  now  and  again  the  General's 
questioning  glance  traveled  to  that  second  mute  picture;  a 
larger  growth,  a  gracious  realization,  as  it  were,  of  the  hopes 
embodied  in  the  baby  forms  rioting  in  the  foreground.  Their 
faces  made  up  a  kind  of  living  poem,  illustrating  life's  various 
phases.  The  luxurious  background  of  the  salon,  the  different 
attitudes,  the  strong  contrasts  of  coloring  in  the  faces,  differ- 
ing with  the  character  of  differing  ages,  the  modeling  of  the 
forms  brought  into  high  relief  by  the  light — altogether  it  was 
a  page  of  human  life,  richly  illuminated  beyond  the  art  of 
painter,  sculptor,  or  poet.  Silence,  solitude,  night  and  winter 
lent  a  final  touch  of  majesty  to  complete  the  simplicity  and 
sublimity  of  this  exquisite  effect  of  nature's  contriving.  Mar- 
ried life  is  full  of  these  sacred  hours,  which  perhaps  owe  their 
indefinable  charm  to  some  vague  memory  of  a  better  world. 
A  divine  radiance  surely  shines  upon  them,  the  destined  com- 
pensation for  some  portion  of  earth's  sorrows,  the  solace  which 
enables  man  to  accept  life.  We  seem  to  behold  a  vision  of 
an  enchanted  universe,  the  great  conception  of  its  system 
widens  out  before  our  eyes,  and  social  life  pleads  for  its  laws 
by  bidding  us  look  to  the  future. 


136  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  tender  glances  that  Helene  gave  Abel 
and  Mo'ina  after  a  fresh  outburst  of  merriment ;  in  spite  of  the 
look  of  gladness  in  her  transparent  face  whenever  she  stole 
a  glance  at  her  father,  a  deep  melancholy  pervaded  her 
gestures,  her  attitude,  and  more  than  all,  her  eyes  veiled  by 
their  long  lashes.  Those  white,  strong  hands,  through  which 
the  light  passed,  tinting  them  with  a  diaphanous,  almost  fluid 
red — those  hands  were  trembling.  Once  only  did  the  eyes 
of  the  mother  and  daughter  clash  without  shrinking,  and  the 
two  women  read  each  other's  thoughts  in  a  look,  cold,  wan, 
and  respectful  on  Helene's  part,  sombre  and  threatening  on 
her  mother's.  At  once  Helene's  eyes  were  lowered  to  her 
work,  she  plied  her  needle  swiftly,  and  it  was  long  before  she 
raised  her  head,  bowed  as  it  seemed  by  a  weight  of  thought 
too  heavy  to  bear.  Was  the  Marquise  over  harsh  with  this 
one  of  her  children?  Did  she  think  this  harshness  needful? 
Was  she  jealous  of  Helene's  beauty? — She  might  still  hope 
to  rival  Helene,  but  only  by  the  magic  arts  of  the  toilette. 
Or  again,  had  her  daughter,  like  many  a  girl  who  reaches 
the  clairvoyant  age,  read  the  secrets  which  this  wife  (to  all 
appearance  so  religiously  faithful  in  the  fulfilment  of  her 
duties)  believed  to  be  buried  in  her  own  heart  as  deeply  as 
in  a  grave  ? 

Helene  had  reached  an  age  when  purity  of  soul  inclines 
to  pass  over-rigid  judgments.  A  certain  order  of  mind  is 
apt  to  exaggerate  transgression  into  crime;  imagination  re- 
acts upon  conscience,  and  a  young  girl  is  a  hard  judge  be- 
cause she  magnifies  the  seriousness  of  the  offence.  Helene 
seemed  to  think  herself  worthy  of  no  one.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  secret  in  her  past  life,  perhaps  something  had  hap- 
pened, unintelligible  to  her  at  the  time,  but  with  gradually 
developing  significance  for  a  mind  grown  susceptible  to  re- 
ligious influences;  something  which  lately  seemed  to  have 
degraded  her,  as  it  were,  in  her  own  eyes,  and  according  to 
her  own  romantic  standard.  This  change  in  her  demeanor 
dated  from  the  day  of  reading  Schiller's  noble  tragedy  of 
Wilhelm  Tell  in  a  new  series  of  translations.  Her  mother 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  137 

scolded  her  for  letting  the  book  fall,  and  tken  remarked  to 
herself  that  the  passage  which  had  so  worked  on  Helene's 
feelings  was  the  scene  in  which  Wilhelm  Tell,  who  spilt  the 
blood  of  a  tyrant  to  save  a  nation,  fraternizes  in  some  sort 
with  John  the  Parricide.  Helene  had  grown  humble,  dutiful, 
and  self-contained ;  she  no  longer  cared  for  gaiety.  Never  had 
she  made  so  much  of  her  father,  especially  when  the  Marquise 
was  not  by  to  watch  her  girlish  caresses.  And  yet,  if  Helene's 
affection  for  her  mother  had  cooled  at  all,  the  change  in  her' 
manner  was  so  slight  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible ;  so  slight 
that  the  General  could  not  have  noticed  it,  jealous  though  he 
might  be  of  the  harmony  of  home.  No  masculine  insight 
could  have  sounded  the  depths  of  those  two  feminine  natures ; 
the  one  was  young  and  generous,  the  other  sensitive  and 
proud ;  the  first  had  a  wealth  of  indulgence  in  her  nature,  the 
second  was  full  of  craft  and  love.  If  the  Marquise  made 
her  daughter's  life  a  burden  to  her  by  a  woman's  subtle 
tyranny,  it  was  a  tyranny  invisible  to  all  but  the  victim; 
and  for  the  rest,  these  conjectures  only  called  forth  after 
the  event  must  remain  conjectures.  Until  this  night  no  ac- 
cusing flash  of  light  had  escaped  either  of  them,  but  an 
ominous  mystery  was  too  surely  growing  up  between  them, 
a  mystery  known  only  to  themselves  and  God. 

"Come,  Abel,"  called  the  Marquise,  seizing  on  her  oppor- 
tunity when  the  children  were  tired  of  play  and  still  for  a 
moment.  "Come,  come,  child;  you  must  be  put  to  bed " 

And  with  a  glance  that  must  be  obeyed,  she  caught  him 
up  and  took  him  on  her  knee. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  General.  "Half -past  ten  o'clock, 
and  not  one  of  the  servants  has  come  back !  The  rascals ! — 
Gustave,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  son,  "I  allowed  you  to  read 
that  book  only  on  the  condition  that  you  should  put  it  away 
at  ten  o'clock.  You  ought  to  have  shut  up  the  book  at  the 
proper  time  and  gone  to  bed,  as  you  promised.  If  you  mean 
to  make  your  mark  in  the  world,  you  must  keep  your  word; 
let  it  be  a  second  religion  to  you,  and  a  point  of  honor.  Fox, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  English  orators,  was  remarkable,  above 


138  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

all  things,  for  the  beauty  of  his  character,  and  the  very  first 
of  his  qualities  was  the  scrupulous  faithfulness  with  which  he 
kept  his  engagements.  When  he  was  a  child,  his  father  (an 
Englishman  of  the  old  school)  gave  him  a  pretty  strong  les- 
son which  he  never  forgot.  Like  most  rich  Englishmen, 
Fox's  father  had  a  country  house  and  a  considerable  park 
about  it.  Now,  in  the  park  there  was  an  old  summer-house, 
and  orders  had  been  given  that  this  summer-house  was  to 
be  pulled  clown  and  put  up  somewhere  else  where  there  was 
a  finer  view.  Fox  was  just  about  your  age,  and  had  come 
home  for  the  holidays.  Boys  are  fond  of  seeing  things  pulled 
to  pieces,  so  young  Fox  asked  to  stay  on  at  home  for  a  few 
days  longer  to  see  the  old  summer-house  taken  down ;  but  his 
father  said  that  he  must  go  back  to  school  on  the  proper  day, 
so  there  was  anger  between  father  and  son.  Fox's  mother 
(like  all  mammas)  took  the  boy's  part.  Then  the  father 
solemnly  promised  that  the  summer-house  should  stay  where 
it  was  till  the  next  holidays. 

"So  Fox  went  back  to  school;  and  his  father,  thinking 
that  lessons  would  soon  drive  the  whole  thing  out  of  the  boy's 
mind,  had  the  summer-house  pulled  down  and  put  up  in  the 
new  position.  But  as  it  happened,  the  persistent  youngster 
thought  of  nothing  but  that  summer-house;  and  as  soon  as 
he  came  home  again,  his  first  care  was  to  go  out  to  look  at 
the  old  building,  and  he  came  in  to  breakfast  looking  quite 
doleful,  and  said  to  his  father,  'You  have  broken  your 
promise.'  The  old  English  gentleman  said  with  confusion 
full  of  dignity,  'That  is  true,  my  boy;  but  I  will  make 
amends.  A  man  ought  to  think  of  keeping  his  word  before 
he  thinks  of  his  fortune;  for  by  keeping  to  his  word  he  will 
gain  fortune,  while  all  the  fortunes  in  the  world  will  not 
efface  the  stain  left  on  your  conscience  by  a  breach  of  faith.' 
Then  he  gave  orders  that  the  summer-house  should  be  put  up 
again  in  the  old  place,  and  when  it  had  been  rebuilt  he  had 
it  taken  down  again  for  his  son  to  see.  Let  this  be  a  lesson 
to  you,  Gustave." 

Gustave  had  been  listening  with  interest,   and  now  he 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  139 

closed  the  book  at  once.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  while 
the  General  took  possession  of  Moina,  who  could  scarcely  keep 
her  eyes  open.  The  little  one's  languid  head  fell  back  on 
her  father's  breast,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  fast  asleep, 
wrapped  round  about  in  her  golden  curls. 

Just  then  a  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  rang  on  the  pave- 
ment out  in  the  street,  immediately  followed  by  three  knocks 
on  the  street  door,  waking  the  echoes  of  the  house.  The  re- 
verberating blows  told,  as  plainly  as  a  cry  for  help,  that  here 
was  a  man  flying  for  his  life.  The  house  dog  barked 
furiously.  A  thrill  of  excitement  ran  through  Helene  and 
Gustave  and  the  General  and  his  wife ;  but  neither  Abel,  with 
the  night-cap  strings  just  tied  under  his  chin,  nor  Moina 
awoke. 

"The  fellow  is  in  a  hurry !"  exclaimed  the  General.  He 
put  the  little  girl  down  on  the  chair,  and  hastened  out  of 
the  room,  heedless  of  his  wife's  entreating  cry,  "Dear,  do 
not  go  down — 

He  stepped  into  his  own  room  for  a  pair  of  pistols,  lighted 
a  dark  lantern,  sprang  at  lightning  speed  down  the  staircase, 
and  in  another  minute  reached  the  house  door,  his  oldest  boy 
fearlessly  following. 

"Who  is  there?"  demanded  he. 

"Let  me  in,"  panted  a  breathless  voice. 

"Are  you  a  friend  ?" 

"Yes,  friend." 

"Are  you  alone  ?" 

"Yes !    But  let  me  in ;  they  are  after  me !" 

The  General  had  scarcely  set  the  door  ajar  before  a  man 
slipped  into  the  porch  with  the  uncanny  swiftness  of  a 
shadow.  Before  the  master  of  the  house  could  prevent  him, 
the  intruder  had  closed  the  door  with  a  well-directed  kick, 
and  set  his  back  against  it  resolutely,  as  if  he  were  deter- 
mined that  it  should  not  be  opened  again.  In  a  moment 
the  General  had  his  lantern  and  pistol  at  a  level  with  the 
stranger's  breast,  and  beheld  a  man  of  medium  height  in  a 
fur-lined  pelisse.  It  was  an  old  man's  garment,  both  too 


140  A   WOMAN   OP  THIRTY 

large  and  too  long  for  its  present  wearer.  Chance  or  caution 
had  slouched  the  man's  hat  over  his  eyes. 

"You  can  lower  your  pistol,  sir,"  said  this  person.  "I  do 
not  claim  to  stay  in  your  house  against  your  will;  but  if  I 
leave  it,  death  is  waiting  for  me  at  the  barrier.  And  what 
a  death !  You  would  be  answerable  to  God  for  it !  I  ask 
for  your  hospitality  for  two  hours.  And  bear  this  in  mind, 
sir,  that,  suppliant  as  I  am,  I  have  a  right  to  command  with 
the  despotism  of  necessity.  I  want  the  Arab's  hospitality. 
Either  I  and  my  secret  must  be  inviolable,  or  open  the  door 
and  I  will  go  to  my  death.  I  want  secrecy,  a  safe  hiding- 
place,  and  water.  Oh !  water !"  he  cried  again,  with  a  rattle 
in  his  throat. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  the  General,  taken  aback  by 
the  stranger's  feverish  volubility. 

"Ah!  who  am  I?  Good,  open  the  door,  and  I  will  put 
a  distance  between  us,"  retorted  the  other,  and  there  was  a 
diabolical  irony  in  his  tone. 

Dexterously  as  the  Marquis  passed  the  light  of  the  lantern 
over  the  man's  face,  he  could  only  see  the  lower  half  of  it, 
and  that  in  nowise  prepossessed  him  in  favor  of  this  singular 
claimant  of  hospitality.  The  cheeks  were  livid  and  quiver- 
ing, the  features  dreadfully  contorted.  Under  the  shadow 
of  the  hat-brim  a  pair  of  eyes  gleamed  out  like  flames;  the 
feeble  candle-light  looked  almost  dim  in  comparison.  Some 
sort  of  answer  must  be  made  however. 

"Your  language,  sir,  is  so  extraordinary  that  in  my  place 
you  yourself — 

"My  life  is  in  your  hands !"  the  intruder  broke  in.  The 
sound  of  his  voice  was  dreadful  to  hear. 

"Two  hours?"  said  the  Marquis,  wavering. 

"Two  hours,"  echoed  the  other. 

Then  quite  suddenly,  with  a  desperate  gesture,  he  pushed 
back  his  hat  and  left  his  forehead  bare,  and,  as  if  he  meant 
to  try  a  final  expedient,  he  gave  the  General  a  glance  that 
seemed  to  plunge  like  a  vivid  flash  into  his  very  soul.  That 
electrical  discharge  of  intelligence  and  will  was  swift  as  light' 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  141 

ning  and  crushing  as  a  thunderbolt;  for  there  are  moments 
when  a  human  being  is  invested  for  a  brief  space  with  inex- 
plicable power. 

"Come,  whoever  you  may  be,  you  shall  be  in  safety  under 
my  roof,"  the  master  of  the  house  said  gravely  at  last,  acting, 
as  he  imagined,  upon  one  of  those  intuitions  which  a  man 
cannot  always  explain  to  himself. 

"God  will  repay  you !"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  deep,  in- 
voluntary sigh. 

"Have  you  weapons  ?"  asked  the  General. 

For  all  answer  the  stranger  flung  open  his  fur  pelisse,  and 
scarcely  gave  the  other  time  for  a  glance  before  he  wrapped 
it  about  him  again.  To  all  appearance  he  was  unarmed  and  in 
evening  dress.  Swift  as  the  soldier's  scrutiny  had  been,  he 
saw  something,  however,  which  made  him  exclaim: 

"Where  the  devil  have  you  been  to  get  yourself  in  such 
a  mess  in  such  dry  weather?" 

"More  questions !"  said  the  stranger  haughtily. 

At  the  words  the  Marquis  caught  sight  of  his  son,  and  his 
own  late  homily  on  the  strict  fulfilment  of  a  given  word  came 
up  in  his  mind.  In  lively  vexation,  he  exclaimed,  not  without 
a  touch  of  anger: 

"What!  little  rogue,  you  here  when  you  ought  to  be  in 
bed?" 

"Because  I  thought  I  might  be  of  some  good  in  danger," 
answered  Gustave. 

"There,  go  up  to  your  room,"  said  his  father,  mollified  by 
the  reply. — "And  you"  (addressing  the  stranger),  "come  with 
me." 

The  two  men  grew  as  silent  as  a  pair  of  gamblers  who 
watch  each  other's  play  with  mutual  suspicions.  The  General 
himself  began  to  be  troubled  with  ugly  presentiments.  The 
strange  visit  weighed  upon  his  mind  already  like  a  night- 
mare; but  he  had  passed  his  word,  there  was  no  help  for  it 
now,  and  he  led  the  way  along  the  passages  and  stairways 
till  they  reached  a  large  room  on  the  second  floor  immediately 
above  the  salon.  This  was  an  empty  room  where  linen  was 


142  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

dried  in  the  winter.  It  had  but  the  one  door,  and  for  all 
decoration  boasted  one  solitary  shabby  looking-glass  above  the 
chimney-piece,  left  by  the  previous  owner,  and  a  great  pier 
glass,  placed  provisionally  opposite  the  fireplace  until  such 
time  as  a  use  should  be  found  for  it  in  the  rooms  below.  The 
four  yellowish  walls  were  bare.  The  floor  had  never  been 
swept.  The  huge  attic  was  icy-cold,  and  the  furniture  con- 
sisted of  a  couple  of  rickety  straw-bottomed  chairs,  or  rather 
frames  of  chairs.  The  General  set  the  lantern  down  upon  the 
chimney-piece.  Then  he  spoke: 

"It  is  necessary  for  your  own  safety  to  hide  you  in  this 
comfortless  attic.  And,  as  you  have  my  promise  to  keep 
your  secret,  you  will  permit  me  to  lock  you  in." 

The  other  bent  his  head  in  acquiescence. 

"I  asked  for  nothing  but  a  hiding-place,  secrecy,  and 
water,"  returned  he. 

"I  will  bring  you  some  directly,"  said  the  Marquis,  shut- 
ting the  door  cautiously.  He  groped  his  way  down  into  the 
salon  for  a  lamp  before  going  to  the  kitchen  to  look  for  a 
carafe. 

"Well,  what  is  it  ?"  the  Marquise  asked  quickly. 

"Nothing,  dear,"  he  returned  coolly. 

"But  we  listened,  and  we  certainly  heard  you  go  upstairs 
with  somebody." 

"Helene,"  said  the  General,  and  he  looked  at  his  daughter, 
who  raised  her  face,  "bear  in  mind  that  your  father's  honor 
depends  upon  your  discretion.  You  must  have  heard  noth- 
ing." 

The  girl  bent  her  head  in  answer.  The  Marquise  was  con- 
fused and  smarting  inwardly  at  the  way  in  which  her  hus- 
band had  thought  fit  to  silence  her. 

Meanwhile  the  General  went  for  the  bottle  and  a  tumbler, 
and  returned  to  the  room  above.  His  prisoner  was  leaning 
against  the  chimney-piece,  his  head  was  bare,  he  had  flung 
down  his  hat  on  one  of  the  two  chairs.  Evidently  he  had 
not  expected  to  have  so  bright  a  light  turned  upon  him,  and 
he  frowned  and  looked  anxious  as  he  met  the  General's  keen 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  143 

eyes;  but  his  face  softened  and  wore  a  gracious  expression 
as  he  thanked  his  protector.  When  the  latter  placed  the 
bottle  and  glass  on  the  mantel-shelf,  the  stranger's  eyes 
flashed  out  on  him  again;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  in 
musical  tones  with  no  sign  of  the  previous  guttural  convul- 
sion, though  his  voice  was  still  unsteady  with  repressed  emo- 
tion. 

"I  shall  seem  to  you  to  be  a  strange  being,  sir,  but  you 
must  pardon  the  caprices  of  necessity.  If  you  propose  to  re- 
main in  the  room,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  look  at  me  while 
I  am  drinking." 

Vexed  at  this  continual  obedience  to  a  man  whom  he  dis- 
liked, the  General  sharply  turned  his  back  upon  him.  The 
stranger  thereupon  drew  a  white  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  wound  it  about  his  right  hand.  Then  he  seized 
the  carafe  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught.  The  Marquis,  star- 
ing vacantly  into  the  tall  mirror  across  the  room,  without  a 
thought  of  breaking  his  implicit  promise,  saw  the  stranger's 
figure  distinctly  reflected  by  the  opposite  looking-glass,  and 
saw,  too,  a  red  stain  suddenly  appear  through  the  folds  of 
the  white  bandage.  The  man's  hands  were  steeped  in  blood. 

"Ah !  you  saw  me  I"  cried  the  other.  He  had  drunk  off  the 
water  and  wrapped  himself  again  in  his  cloak,  and  now 
scrutinized  the  General  suspiciously.  "It  is  all  over  with  me ! 
Here  they  come  I" 

"I  don't  hear  anything,"  said  the  Marquis. 

'"You  have  not  the  same  interest  that  I  have  in  listening 
for  sounds  in  the  air." 

"You  have  been  fighting  a  duel,  I  suppose,  to  be  in  such 
a  state?"  queried  the  General,  not  a  little  disturbed  by  the 
color  of  those  broad,  dark  patches  staining  his  visitor's  cloak. 

"Yes,  a  duel;  you  have  it,"  said  the  other,  and  a  bitter 
smile  flitted  over  his  lips. 

As  he  spoke  a  sound  rang  along  the  distant  road,  a  sound 
of  galloping  horses ;  but  so  faint  as  yet,  that  it  was  the  merest 
dawn  of  a  sound.  The  General's  trained  ear  recognized  the 
advance  of  a  troop  of  regulars. 


144  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

"That  is  the  gendarmerie,"  said  he. 

He  glanced  at  his  prisoner  to  reassure  him  after  his  own 
involuntary  indiscretion,  took  the  lamp,  and  went  down  to 
the  salon.  He  had  scarcely  laid  the  key  of  the  room  above 
upon  the  chimney-piece  when  the  hoof  beats  sounded  louder, 
and  came  swiftly  nearer  and  nearer  the  house.  The  General 
felt  a  shiver  of  excitement,  and  indeed  the  horses  stopped  at 
the  house  door  ;  a  few  words  were  exchanged  among  the  men, 
and  one  of  them  dismounted  and  knocked  loudly.  There  was 
no  help  for  it  ;  the  General  went  to  open  the  door.  He  could 
scarcely  conceal  his  inward  perturbation  at  the  sight  of  half 
a  dozen  gendarmes  outside,  the  metal  rims  of  their  caps 
gleaming  like  silver  in  the  moonlight. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  corporal,  "have  you  heard  a  man  run 
past  towards  the  barrier  within  the  last  few  minutes?" 

"Towards  the  barrier?    No." 

"Have  you  opened  the  door  to  any  one  ?" 

"Now,  am  I  in  the  habit  of  answering  the  door  myself  -  " 

"I  ask  your  pardon,  General,  but  just  now  it  seems  to  me 


"Eeally  !"  cried  the  Marquis  wrathfully.  "Have  you  a 
mind  to  try  joking  with  me?  What  right  have  you  -  ?" 

"None  at  all,  none  at  all,  my  lord,"  cried  the  corporal, 
hastily  putting  in  a  soft  answer.  "You  will  excuse  our  zeal. 
We  know,  of  course,  that  a  peer  of  France  is  not  likely  to 
harbor  a  murderer  at  this  time  of  night  ;  but  as  we  want  any 
information  we  can  get  -  " 

"A  murderer!"  cried  the  General.  "Who  can  have 
been  -  " 

"M.  le  Baron  de  Mauny  has  just  been  murdered.  It  was 
a  blow  from  an  axe,  and  we  are  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  criminal. 
We  know  for  certain  that  he  is  somewhere  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, and  we  shall  hunt  him  down.  By  your  leave,  General," 
and  the  man  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  as  he  spoke.  It 
was  well  that  he  did  so,  for  a  corporal  of  gendarmerie  trained 
to  alert  observation  and  quick  surmise  would  have  had  his 
suspicions  at  once  if  he  had  caught  sight  of  the  General's 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  145 

face.  Everything  that  passed  through  the  soldier's  mind  was 
faithfully  revealed  in  his  frank  countenance. 

"Is  it  known  who  the  murderer  is  ?"  asked  he. 

"No,"  said  the  other,  now  in  the  saddle.  "He  left  the 
bureau  full  of  banknotes  and  gold  untouched." 

"It  was  revenge,  then,"  said  the  Marquis. 

"On  an  old  man  ?  pshaw !  No,  no,  the  fellow  hadn't  time  to 
take  it,  that  was  all,"  and  the  corporal  galloped  after  his  com- 
rades, who  were  almost  out  of  sight  by  this  time. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  General  stood,  a  victim  to  perplexi- 
ties which  need  no  explanation;  but  in  a  moment  he  heard 
the  servants  returning  home,  their  voices  were  raised  in  some 
sort  of  dispute  at  the  cross-roads  of  Montreuil.  When  they 
came  in,  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  an  explosion  of  rage, 
his  wrath  fell  upon  them  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  all  the 
echoes  of  the  house  trembled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  In 
the  midst  of  the  storm  his-  own  man,  the  boldest  and  cleverest 
of  the  party,  brought  out  an  excuse;  they  had  been  stopped, 
he  said,  by  the  gendarmerie  at  the  gate  of  Montreuil,  a  mur- 
der had  been  committed,  and  the  police  were  in  pursuit.  In 
a  moment  the  General's  anger  vanished,  he  said  not  another 
word;  then,  bethinking  himselt  of  his  own  singular  position, 
drily  ordered  them  all  off  to  bed  at  once,  and  left  them 
amazed  at  his  readiness  to  accept  their  fellow  servant's  lying 
excuse. 

While  these  incidents  took  place  in  the  yard,  an  apparently 
trifling  occurrence  had  changed  the  relative  positions  of  three 
characters  in  this  story.  The  Marquis  had  scarcely  left  the 
room  before  his  wife  looked  first  towards  the  key  on  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  then  at  Helene;  and,  after  some  wavering, 
bent  towards  her  daughter  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Helene, 
your  father  has  left  the  key  on  the  chimney-piece." 

The  girl  looked  up  in  surprise  and  glanced  timidly  at  her 
mother.  The  Marquise's  eyes  sparkled  with  curiosity. 

"Well,  mamma?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  had  a  troubled 
ring. 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  is  going  on  upstairs.     If 
VOL.  5—34 


146  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

there  is  anybody  up  there,  he  has  not  stirred  yet.  Just  go 
up— 

"It"  cried  the  girl,  with  something  like  horror  in  her 
tones. 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"No,  mainrna,  but  I  thought  I  heard  a  man's  footsteps." 

"If  I  could  go  myself,  I  should  not  have  asked  you  to  go, 
Helene,"  said  her  mother  with  cold  dignity.  "If  your  father 
were  to  come  back  and  did  not  see  me,  he  would  go  to  look  for 
me  perhaps,  but  he  would  not  notice  your  absence." 

"Madame,  if  you  bid  me  go,  I  will  go,"  said  Helene,  "but 
I  shall  lose  my  father's  good  opinion " 

"What  is  this!"  cried  the  Marquise  in  a  sarcastic  tone. 
"But  since  you  take  a  thing  that  was  said  in  joke  in  earnest, 
I  now  order  you  to  go  upstairs  and  see  who  is  in  the  room 
above.  Here  is  the  key,  child.  When  your  father  told  you 
to  say  nothing  about  this  thing  that  happened,  he  did  not 
forbid  you  to  go  up  to  the  room.  Go  at  once — and  learn  that 
a  daughter  ought  never  to  judge  her  mother." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  all  the  severity  of  a  justly 
offended  mother.  The  Marquise  took  the  key  and  handed  it 
to  Helene,  who  rose  without  a  word  and  left  the  room. 

"My  mother  can  always  easily  obtain  her  pardon,"  thought 
the  girl ;  "but  as  for  me,  my  father  will  never  think  the  same 
of  me  again.  Does  she  mean  to  rob  me  of  his  tenderness? 
Does  she  want  to  turn  me  out  of  his  house  ?" 

These  were  thoughts  that  set  her  imagination  in  a  sudden 
ferment,  as  she  went  down  the  dark  passage  to  the  mysterious 
door  at  the  end.  When  she  stood  before  it,  her  mental  con- 
fusion grew  to  a  fateful  pitch.  Feelings  hitherto  forced  down 
into  inner  depths  crowded  up  at  the  summons  of  these  con- 
fused thoughts.  Perhaps  hitherto  she  had  never  believed 
that  a  happy  life  lay  before  her,  but  now,  in  this  awful  mo- 
ment, her  despair  was  complete.  She  shook  convulsively  as 
she  set  the  key  in  the  lock ;  so  great  indeed  was  her  agitation, 
that  she  stopped  for  a  moment  and  laid  her  hand  on  her 
heart,  as  if  to  still  the  heavy  throbs  that  sounded  in  her  ears. 
Then  she  opened  the  door. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  147 

The  creaking  of  the  hinges  sounded  doubtless  in  vain  on 
the  murderer's  ears.  Acute  as  were  his  powers,  of  hearing,  he 
stood  as  if  lost  in  thought,  and  so  motionless  that  he  might 
have  heen  glued  to  the  wall  against  which  he  leaned.  In  the 
circle  of  semi-opaque  darkness,  dimly  lit  by  the  bull's-eye  lan- 
tern, he  looked  like  the  shadowy  figure  of  some  dead  knight, 
standing  for  ever  in  his  shadowy  mortuary  niche  in  the 
gloom  of  some  Gothic  chapel.  Drops  of  cold  sweat  trickled 
over  the  broad,  sallow  forehead.  An  incredible  fearlessness 
looked  out  from  every  tense  feature.  His  eyes  of  fire  were 
fixed  and  tearless;  he  seemed  to  be  watching  some  struggle 
in  the  darkness  beyond  him.  Stormy  thoughts  passed  swiftly 
across  a  face  whose  firm  decision  spoke  of  a  character  of  no 
common  order.  His  whole  person,  bearing,  and  frame  bore 
out  the  impression  of  a  tameless  spirit.  The  man  looked 
power  and  strength  personified ;  he  stood  facing  the  darkness 
as  if  it  were  the  visible  image  of  his  own  future. 

These  physical  characteristics  had  made  no  impression  upon 
the  General,  familiar  as  he  was  with  the  powerful  faces  of 
the  group  of  giants  gathered  about  Napoleon;  speculative 
curiosity,  moreover,  as  to  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  ap- 
parition had  completely  filled  his  mind;  but  Helene,  with 
feminine  sensitiveness  to  surface  impressions,  was  struck  by 
the  blended  chaos  of  light  and  darkness,  grandeur  and  pas- 
sion, suggesting  a  likeness  between  this  stranger  and  Lucifer 
recovering  from  his  fall.  Suddenly  the  storm  apparent  in 
his  face  was  stilled  as  if  by  magic ;  and  the  indefinable  power 
to  sway  which  the  stranger  exercised  upon  others',  and  perhaps 
unconsciously  and  as  by  reflex  action  upon  himself,  spread  its 
influence  about  him  with  the  progressive  swiftness  of  a  flood. 
A  torrent  of  thought  rolled  away  from  his  brow  as  his  face 
resumed  its  ordinary  expression.  Perhaps  it  was  the  strange- 
ness of  this  meeting,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  mystery  into  which 
she  had  penetrated,  that  held  the  young  girl  spellbound  in  the 
doorway,  so  that  she  could  look  at  a  face  pleasant  to  behold 
and  full  of  interest.  For  some  moments  she  stood  in  the 
magical  silence;  a  trouble  had  come  upon  her  never  known 


145  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

beforis  in  her  young  life.  Perhaps  some  exclamation  broke 
from  Helene,  perhaps  she  moved  unconsciously;  or  it  may  be 
that  the  hunted  criminal  returned  of  his  own  accord  from 
the  world  of  ideas  to  the  material  world,  and  heard  some  one 
breathing  in  the  room;  however  it  was,  he  turned  his  head 
towards  his  host's  daughter,  and  saw  dimly  in  the  shadow  a 
noble  face  and  queenly  form,  which  he  must  have  taken  for 
an.  angel's,  so  •  motionless  she  stood,  so  vague  and  like  a 
spirit. 

"Monsieur     .     .     ."a  trembling  voice  cried. 

The  murderer  trembled. 

"A  woman  I"  he  cried  under  his  breath.  "Is  it  possible  ? 
Go/'  he  cried,  "I  deny  that  any  one  has  a  right  to  pity,  to 
absolve,  or  condemn  me.  I  must  live  alone.  Go,  my  child," 
he  added,  with  an  imperious  gesture,  "I  should  ill  requite 
the  service  done  me  by  the  master  of  the  house  if  I  were  to 
allow  a  single  creature  under  his  roof  to  breathe  the  same 
air  with  me.  I  must  submit  to  be  judged  by  the  laws  of  the 
world." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  lower  voice.  Even  as  he 
realized  with  a  profound  intuition  all  the  manifold  misery 
awakened  by  that  melancholy  thought,  the  glance  that 
he  gave  Helene  had  something  of  the  power  of  the  serpent, 
stirring  a  whole  dormant  world  in  the  mind  of  the  strange 
girl  before  him.  To  her  that  glance  was  like  a  light  revealing 
unknown  lands.  She  was  stricken  with  strange  trouble,  help- 
less, quelled  by  a  magnetic  power  exerted  unconsciously.  Trem- 
bling and  ashamed,  she  went  out  and  returned  to  the  salon. 
She  had  scarcely  entered  the  room  before  her  father  came 
back,  so  that  she  had  not  time  to  say  a  word  to  her  mother. 

The  General  was  wholly  absorbed  in  thought.  He  folded 
his  arms,  and  paced  silently  to  and  fro  between  the  win- 
dows which  looked  out  upon  the  street  and  the  second  row 
which  gave  upon  the  garden.  His  wife  lay  the  sleeping  Abel 
on  her  knee,  and  little  Moina  lay  in  untroubled  slumber  in 
the  low  chair,  like  a  bird  in  its  nest.  Her  older  sister  stared 
into  the  fire,  a  skein  of  silk  in  one  hand,  a  needle  in  the 
other. 


He  turned  his  head  toward  his  host's  daughter 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  149 

Deep  silence  prevailed,  broken  only  by  lagging  footsteps 
oi,  the  stairs,  as  one  by  one  the  servants  crept  away  to  bed; 
th,?re  was  an  occasional  burst  of  stifled  laughter,  a  last  echo 
of  the  wedding  festivity,  or  doors  were  opened  as  they  still 
talked  among  themselves,  then  shut.  A  smothered  sound 
came  now  and  again  from  the  bedrooms,  a  chair  fell,  the 
old  coachman  coughed  feebly,  then  all  was  silent. 

In  a  little  while  the  dark  majesty  with  which  sleeping  earth 
is  invested  at  midnight  brought  all  things  under  its  sway. 
No  lights  shone  but  the  light  of  the  stars.  The  frost  gripped 
the  ground.  There  was  not  a  sound  of  a  voice,  nor  a  living 
creature  stirring.  The  crackling  of  the  fire  only  seemed  to 
make  the  depth  of  the  silence  more  fully  felt. 

The  church  clock  of  Montreuil  had  just  struck  one,  when 
an  nlmost  inaudible  sound  of  a  light  footstep  came  from 
the  second  flight  of  stairs.  The  Marquis  and  his  daughter, 
both  believing  that  M.  de  Mauny's  murderer  was  a  prisoner 
above,  thought  that  one  of  the  maids  had  come  down,  and  no 
one  was  at  all  surprised  to  hear  the  door  open  in  the  ante- 
chairiber.  Quite  suddenly  the  murderer  appeared  in  their 
mid*.};.  The  Marquis  himself  was  sunk  in  deep  musings, 
the  mother  and  daughter  were  silent,  the  one  from  keen  cu- 
riosity, the  other  from  sheer  astonishment,  so  that  the  visitor 
was  almost  half-way  across  the  room  when  he  spoke  to  the 
General. 

"fc>ir,  the  two  hours  are  almost  over,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
was  strangely  calm  and  musical. 

"You  here!"  cried  the  General.  "By  what  means ?" 

and  he  gave  wife  and  daughter  a  formidable  questioning 
glance.  Helene  grew  red  as  fire. 

''You!"  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  filled  with  horror.  "You 
among  us  !  A  murderer  covered  with  blood !  You  are  a  blot 
on  chis  picture !  Go,  go  out !"  he  added  in  a  burst  of  rage. 

At  that  word  "murderer,"  the  Marquise  cried  out;  as  for 
Helene,  it  seemed  to  mark  an  epoch  in  her  life,  there  was 
noc  a  trace  of  surprise  in  her  face.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
been  waiting  for  this — for  him.  Those  so  vast  thoughts  of 


150  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

hers  had  found  a  meaning.  The  punishment  reserved  by 
Heaven  for  her  sins  flamed  out  before  her.  In  her  own  eyes 
she  was  as  great  a  criminal  as  this  murderer;  she  confronted 
him  with  her  quiet  gaze;  she  was  his  fellow,  his  sister.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  in  this  accident  the  command  of  God  had 
been  made  manifest.  If  she  had  been  a  few  years  older, 
reason  would  have  disposed  of  her  remorse,  but  at  this  mo- 
ment she  was  like  one  distraught. 

The  stranger  stood  impassive  and  self-possessed ;  a  scornful 
smile  overspread  his  features  and  his  thick,  red  lips. 

"You  appreciate  the  magnanimity  of  my  behavior  very 
badly,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  would  not  touch  with  my  fingers 
the  glass  of  water  you  brought  me  to  allay  my  thirst;  I  did 
not  so  much  as  think  of  washing  my  blood-stained  hands 
under  your  roof;  I  am  going  away,  leaving  nothing  of  my 
crime"  (here  his  lips  were  compressed)  "but  the  memory;  I 
have  tried  to  leave  no  trace  of  my  presence  in  this  house.  In- 
deed, I  would  not  even  allow  your  daughter  to " 

"My  daughter!"  cried  the  General,  with  a  horror-stricken 
glance  at  Helene.  "Vile  wretch,  go,  or  I  will  kill  you " 

"The  two  hours  are  not  yet  over,"  said  the  other;  "if  you 
kill  me  or  give  me  up,  you  must  lower  yourself  in  your  own 
eyes — and  in  mine." 

At  these  last  words,  the  General  turned  to  stare  at  the 
criminal  in  dumb  amazement;  but  he  could  not  endure  the 
intolerable  light  in  those  eyes  which  for  the  second  time  dis- 
organized his  being.  He  was  afraid  of  showing  weakness 
once  more,  conscious  as  he  was  that  his  will  was  weaker 
already. 

"An  old  man !  You  can  never  have  seen  a  family,"  he 
said,  with  a  father's  glance  at  his  wife  and  children. 

"Yes,  an  old  man,"  echoed  the  stranger,  frowning  slightly. 

"Fly !"  cried  the  General,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  look  at 
his  guest.  "Our  compact  is  broken.  I  shall  not  kill  you. 
No!  I  will  never  be  purveyor  to  the  scaffold.  But  go  out. 
You  make  us  shudder." 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  other  patiently.     "There  is  not 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  151 

a  spot  on  French  soil  where  I  can  set  foot  and  be  safe;  but 
if  man's  justice,  like  God's,  took  all  into  account,  if  man's 
justice  deigned  to  inquire  which  was  the  monster — the  mur- 
derer or  his  victim — then  I  might  hold  up  my  head  among 
my  fellows.  Can  you  not  guess  that  other  crimes  preceded 
that  blow  from  an  axe?  I  constituted  myself  his  judge  and 
executioner;  I  stepped  in  where  man's  justice  failed.  That 
was  my  crime.  Farewell,  sir.  Bitter  though  you  have  made 
yoiir  hospitality,  I  shall  not  forget  it.  I  shall  always  bear 
in  my  heart  a  feeling  of  gratitude  towards  one  man  in  the 
world,  and  you  are  that  man.  .  .  .  But  I  could  wish  that 
you  had  showed  yourself  more  generous !" 

He  turned  towards  the  door,  but  in  the  same  instant 
Helene  leaned  to  whisper  something  in  her  mother's  ear. 

"Ah!     .     .     ." 

At  the  cry  that  broke  from  his  wife,  the  General  trembled 
as  if  he  had  seen  Mo'ina  lying  dead.  There  stood  Helene, 
and  the  murderer  had  turned  instinctively,  with  something 
like  anxiety  about  these  folk  in  his  face. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  the  General. 

"Helene  wants  to  go  with  him." 

The  murderer's  face  flushed. 

"If  that  is  how  my  mother  understands  an  almost  involun- 
tary exclamation,"  Helene  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  will  fulfil 
her  wishes."  She  glanced  about  her  with  something  like 
fierce  pride ;  then  the  girl's  eyes  fell,  and  she  stood,  admirable 
in  her  modesty. 

"Helene,  did  you  go  up  to  the  room  where ?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Helene"  (and  his  voice  shook  with  a  convulsive  tremor), 
"is  this  the  first  time  that  you  have  seen  this  man  ?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Then  it  is  not  natural  that  you  should  intend  to " 

"If  it  is  not  natural,  father,  at  any  rate  it  is  true." 

"Oh!  child,"  said  the  Marquise,  lowering  her  voice,  but 
not  so  much  but  that  her  husband  could  hear  her,  "you  are 
false  to  all  the  principles  of  honor,  modesty,  and  right  which 


152  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

I  have  tried  to  cultivate  in  your  heart.  If  until  this  fatal 
hour  your  life  has  only  been  one  lie,  there  is  nothing  to  regret 
in  your  loss.  It  can  hardly  be  the  moral  perfection  of  this 
stranger  that  attracts  you  to  him?  Can  it  be  the  kind  of 
power  that  commits  crime?  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of 
you  to  suppose  that 

"Oh,  suppose  everything,  madame,"  Helene  said  coldly. 

But  though  her  force  of  character  sustained  this  ordeal,  her 
flashing  eyes  could  scarcely  hold  the  tears  that  filled  them. 
The  stranger,  watching  her,  guessed  the  mother's  language 
from  the  girl's  tears,  and  turned  his  eagle  glance  upon  the 
Marquise.  An  irresistible  power  constrained  her  to  look  at 
this  terrible  seducer ;  but  as  her  eyes  met  his  bright/glittering 
gaze,  she  felt  a  shiver  run  through  her  frame,  such  a  shock  as 
we  feel  at  the  sight  of  a  reptile  or  the  contact  of  a  Leyden 
jar. 

"Dear!"  she  cried,  turning  to  her  husband,  "this  is  the 
Fiend  himself.  He  can  divine  everything !" 

The  General  rose  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the  bell. 

"He  means  ruin  for  you/'  Helene  said  to  the  murderer. 

The  stranger  smiled,  took  one  forward  stride,  grasped  the 
General's  arm,  and  compelled  him  to  endure  a  steady  gaze 
which  benumbed  the  soldier's  brain  and  left  him  powerless. 

"I  will  repay  you  now  for  your  hospitality,"  he  said,  "and 
then  we  shall  be  quits.  I  will  spare  you  the  shame  by  giving 
myself  up.  After  all,  what  should  1  do  now  with  my  life  ?" 

"You  could  repent,"  answered  Helene,  and  her  glance  con- 
veyed such  hope  as  only  glows  in  a  young  girl's  eyes. 

"/  shall  never  repent/'  said  the  murderer  in  a  sonorous 
voice,  as  he  raised  his  head  proudly. 

"His  hands  are  stained  with  blood,"  the  father  said. 

"I  will  wipe  it  away,"  she  answered. 

"But  do  you  so  much  as  know  whether  he  cares  for  you?" 
said  her  father,  not  daring  now  to  look  at  the  stranger. 

The  murderer  came  up  a  little  nearer.  Some  light  within 
seemed  to  glow  through  Helene's  beauty,  grave  and  maidenly 
though  it  was,  coloring  and  bringing  into  relief,  as  it  were, 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  15i> 

the  least  details,  the  most  delicate  lines  in  her  face.  The 
stranger,  with  that  terrible  fire  still  blazing  in  his  eyes,  gave 
one  tender  glance  to  her  enchanting  loveliness,  then  he  spoke, 
his  tones  revealing  how  deeply  he  had  been  moved. 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  allow  this  sacrifice  of  yourself,  and  so 
discharge  my  debt  of  two  hours  of  existence  to  your  father; 
is  not  this  love,  love  for  yourself  alone?" 

"Then  do  you  too  reject  me  ?"  Helene's  cry  rang  painfully 
through  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  her.  "Farewell,  then,  to 
you  all;  I  will  die." 

"What  does  this  mean?"  asked  the  father  and  mother. 

Helene  gave  her  mother  an  eloquent  glance  and  lowered 
her  eyes. 

Since  the  first  attempt  made  by  the  General  and  his  wife 
to  contest  by  word  or  action  the  intruder's  strange  presump- 
tion to  the  right  of  staying  in  their  midst,  from  their  first 
experience  of  the  power  of  those  glittering  eyes,  a  mysterious 
torpor  had  crept  over  them,  and  their  benumbed  faculties 
struggled  in  vain  with  a  preternatural  influence.  The  air 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  grown  so  heavy,  that  they  could 
scarcely  breathe;  yet,  while  they  could  not  find  the  reason  of 
this  feeling  of  oppression,  a  voice  within  told  them  that  this 
magnetic  presence  was  the  real  cause  of  their  helplessness. 
In  this  moral  agony,  it  flashed  across  the  General  that  he 
must  make  every  effort  to  overcome  this  influence  on  his 
daughter's  reeling  brain;  he  caught  her  by  the  waist  and 
drew  her  into  the  embrasure  of  a  window,  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  murderer. 

"Darling,"  he  murmured,  "if  some  wild  love  has  been  sud- 
denly born  in  your  heart,  I  cannot  believe  that  you  have  not 
the  strength  of  soul  to  quell  the  mad  impulse;  your  innocent 
life,  your  pure  and  dutiful  soul,  has  given  me  too  many  proofs 
of  your  character.  There  must  be  something  behind  all  this. 
Well,  this  heart  of  mine  is  full  of  indulgence,  you  can  tell 
everything  to  me ;  even  if  it  breaks,  dear  child,  I  can  be  silent 
about  my  grief,  and  keep  your  confession  a  secret.  What  is 
it?  Are  you  jealous  of  our  love  for  your  brothers  or  your 


154  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

little  sister  ?  Is  it  some  love  trouble  ?  Are  you  unhappy  here 
at  home  ?  Tell  me  about  it,  tell  me  the  reasons  that  urge  you 
to  leave  your  home,  to  rob  it  of  its  greatest  charm,  to  leave 
your  mother  and  brothers  and  your  little  sister  ?" 

"I  am  in  love  with  no  one,  father,  and  jealous  of  no  one, 
not  even  of  your  friend  the  diplomatist,  M.  de  Vandenesse." 

The  Marquise  turned  pale;  her  daughter  saw  this,  and 
stopped  short. 

"Sooner  or  later  I  must  live  under  some  man's  protection, 
must  I  not  ?" 

"That  is  true." 

"Do  we  ever  know,"  she  went  on,  "the  human  being  to 
whom  we  link  our  destinies?  Now,  I  believe  in  this  man." 

"Oh,  child,"  said  the  General,  raising  his  voice,  "you  have 
no  idea  of  all  the  misery  that  lies  in  store  for  you." 

"I  am  thinking  of  liis." 

"What  a  life!"  groaned  the  father. 

"A  woman's  life,"  the  girl  murmured. 

"You  have  a  great  knowledge  of  life !"  exclaimed  the  Mar- 
quise, finding  speech  at  last. 

"Madame,  my  answers  are  shaped  by  the  questions;  but 
if  you  desire  it,  I  will  speak  more  clearly." 

"Speak  out,  my  child     ...     I  am  a  mother." 

Mother  and  daughter  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  and 
the  Marquise  said  no  more.  At  last  she  said : 

"Helene,  if  you  have  any  reproaches  to  make,  I  would 
rather  bear  them  than  see  you  go  away  with  a  man  from  whom 
the  whole  world  shrinks  in  horror." 

"Then  you  see  yourself,  madame,  that  but  for  me  he  would 
be  quite  alone." 

"That  will  do,  madame,"  the  General  cried;  "we  have  but 
one  daughter  left  to  us  now,"  and  he  looked  at  Moina,  who 
slept  on.  "As  for  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Helene,  "I  will 
put  you  in  a  convent." 

"So  be  it,  father,"  she  said,  in  calm  despair,  "I  shall  die 
there.  You  are  answerable  to  God  alone  for  my  life  and  for 
his  soul." 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  155 

A  deep,  sullen  silence  fell  after  those  words.  The  on- 
lookers during  this  strange  scene,  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
all  the  sentiments  of  ordinary  life,  shunned  each  other's  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  Marquis  happened  to  glance  at  his  pistols. 
He  caught  up  one  of  them,  cocked  the  weapon,  and  pointed 
it  at  the  intruder.  At  the  click  of  firearms  the  other  turned 
his  piercing  gaze  full  upon  the  General;  the  soldier's  arm 
slackened  indescribably  and  fell  heavily  to  his  side.  The 
pistol  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"Girl,  you  are  free,"  said  he,  exhausted  by  this  ghastly 
struggle.  "Kiss  your  mother,  if  she  will  let  you  kiss  her.  For 
my  own  part,  I  wish  never  to  see  nor  to  hear  of  you  again." 

"Helene,"  the  mother  began,  "only  think  of  the  wretched 
life  before  you." 

A  sort  of  rattling  sound  came  from  the  intruder's  deep 
chest,  all  eyes  were  turned  to  him.  Disdain  was  plainly 
visible  in  his  face. 

The  General  rose  to  his  feet.  "My  hospitality  has  cost  me 
dear,"  he  cried.  "Before  you  came  you  had  taken  an  old  man's 
life;  now  you  are  dealing  a  deadly  blow  at  a  whole  family. 
Whatever  happens,  there  must  be  unhappiness  in  this  house." 

"And  if  your  daughter  is  happy  ?"  asked  the  other,  gazing 
steadily  at  the  General. 

The  father  made  a  superhuman  effort  for  self-control.  "If 
she  is  happy  with  you,"  he  said,  "she  is  not  worth  regretting." 

Helene  knelt  timidly  before  her  father. 

"Father,  I  love  and  revere  you,"  she  said,  "whether  you 
lavish  all  the  treasures  of  your  kindness  upon  me,  or  make 
me  feel  to  the  full  the  rigor  of  disgrace.  .  .  .  But  I  en- 
treat that  your  last  words  of  farewell  shall  not  be  words  of 
anger." 

The  General  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  at  her.  The 
stranger  came  nearer;  there  was  something  half-diabolical, 
half-divine  in  the  smile  that  he  gave  Helene. 

"Angel  of  pity,  you  that  do  not  shrink  in  horror  from  a 
murderer,  come,  since  you  persist  in  your  resolution  of  in- 
trusting your  life  to  me." 


156  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"Inconceivable !"  cried  her  father. 

The  Marquise  then  looked  strangely  at  her  daughter, 
opened  her  arms,,  and  Helene  fled  to  her  in  tears. 

"Farewell,"  she  said,  "farewell,  mother!"  The  stranger 
trembled  as  Helene,  undaunted,  made  sign  to  him  that  she 
was  ready.  She  kissed  her  father's  hand ;  and,  as  if  perform- 
ing a  duty,  gave  a  hasty  kiss  to  Mo'ina  and  little  Abel,  then 
she  vanished  with  the  murderer. 

"Which  way  are  they  going  ?"  exclaimed  the  General,  listen- 
ing to  the  footsteps  of  the  two  fugitives. — "Madame,"  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  "I  think  I  must  be  dreaming;  there  is 
some  mystery  behind  all  this,  I  do  not  understand  it;  you 
must  know  what  it  means." 

The  Marquise  shivered. 

"For  some  time  past  your  daughter  has  grown  extra- 
ordinarily romantic  and  strangely  high-flown  in  her  ideas. 
In  spite  of  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  combat  these  tendencies 
in  her  character 

"This  will  not  do "  began  the  General,  but  fancying 

that  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  garden,  he  broke  off  to  fling 
open  the  window. 

"Helene !"  he  shouted. 

His  voice  was  lost  in  the  darkness  like  a  vain  prophecy. 
The  utterance  of  that  name,  to  which  there  should  never  be 
answer  any  more,  acted  like  a  counterspell ;  it  broke  the 
charm  and  set  him  free  from  the  evil  enchantment  which  lay 
upon  him.  It  was  as  if  some  spirit  passed  over  his  face. 
He  now  saw  clearly  what  had  taken  place,  and  cursed  his  in- 
comprehensible weakness.  A  shiver  of  heat  rushed  from  his 
heart  to  his  head  and  feet;  he  became  himself  once  more, 
terrible,  thirsting  for  revenge.  He  raised  a  dreadful  cry. 

"Help !"  he  thundered,  "help !" 

He  rushed  to  the  bell-pull,  pulled  till  the  bells  rang  with  a 
strange  clamor  of  din,  pulled  till  the  cord  gave  way.  The 
whole  house  was  roused  with  a  start.  Still  shouting,  he  flung 
open  the  windows  that  looked  upon  the  street,  called  for  the 
police,  caught  up  his  pistols,  and  fired  them  off  to  hurry  the 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  157 

mounted  patrols,  the  newly-aroused  servants,  and  the  neigh- 
bors. The  dogs  barked  at  the  sound  of  their  master's  voice; 
the  horses  neighed  and  stamped  in  their  stalls.  The  quiet 
night  was  suddenly  filled  with  hideous  uproar.  The  General 
on  the  staircase,  in  pursuit  of  his  daughter,  saw  the  scared 
faces  of  the  servants  flocking  from  all  parts  of  the  house. 

"My  daughter !"  he  shouted.  "Helene  has  been  carried  off. 
Search  the  garden.  Keep  a  lookout  on  the  road !  Open  the 
gates  for  the  gendarmerie  ! — Murder !  Help  !" 

With  the  strength  of  fury  he  snapped  the  chain  and  let 
loose  the  great  house-dog. 

"Helene  !"  he  cried,  "Helene !" 

The  dog  sprang  out  like  a  lion,  barking  furiously,  and 
dashed  into  the  garden,  leaving  the  General  far  behind.  A 
troop  of  horses  came  along  the  road  at  a  gallop,  and  he  flew 
to  open  the  gates  himself. 

"Corporal !"  he  shouted,  "cut  off  the  retreat  of  M.  de 
Mauny's  murderer.  They  have  gone  through  my  garden. 
Quick !  Put  a  cordon  of  men  to  watch  the  ways  by  the  Butte 
de  Picardie. — I  will  beat  up  the  grounds,  parks,  and  houses. 
—The  rest  of  you  keep  a  lookout  along  the  road,"  he  ordered 
the  servants,  "form  a  chain  between  the  barrier  and  Ver- 
sailles. Forward,  every  man  of  you!" 

He  caught  up  the  rifle  which  his  man  had  brought  out, 
and  dashed  into  the  garden. 

"Find  them  !"  he  called  to  the  dog. 

An  ominous  baying  came  in  answer  from  the  distance,  and 
he  plunged  in  the  direction  from  which  the  growl  seemed  to 
come. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  all  the  search  made 
by  gendarmes,  servants,  and  neighbors  had  been  fruitless, 
and  the  dog  had  not  come  back.  The  General  entered  the 
salon,  empty  now  for  him  though  the  other  three  children 
were  there;  he  was  worn  out  with  fatigue,  and  looked  old 
already  with  that  night's  work. 

"You  have  been  very  cold  to  your  daughter,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  on  his  wife. — "And  now  this  is  all  that  is  left 


158  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

to  us  of  her/'  he  added,  indicating  the  embroidery  frame, 
and  the  flower  just  begun.  "Only  just  now  she  was  there, 
and  now  she  is  lost  .  .  .  lost  I" 

Tears  followed;  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  he  said  no  more;  he  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  the  room,  which  so  short  a  time  ago  had  made  a  setting 
to  a  picture  of  the  sweetest  family  happiness.  The  winter 
dawn  was  struggling  with  the  dying  lamplight;  the  tapers 
burned  down  to  their  paper- wreaths  and  flared  out;  every- 
thing was  all  in  keeping  with  the  father's  despair. 

"This  must  be  destroyed,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  pointing 
to  the  tambour-frame.  "I  shall  never  bear  to  see  anything 
again  that  reminds  us  of  her!" 

The  terrible  Christmas  night  when  the  Marquis  and  his 
wife  lost  their  oldest  daughter,  powerless  to  oppose  the  mys- 
terious influence  exercised  by  the  man  who  involuntarily,  as 
it  were,  stole  Helene  from  them,  was  like  a  warning  sent  by 
Fate.  The  Marquis  was  ruined  by  the  failure  of  his  stock- 
broker; he  borrowed  money  on  his  wife's  property,  and  lost 
it  in  the  endeavor  to  retrieve  his  fortunes.  Driven  to  des- 
perate expedients,  he  left  France.  Six  years  went  by.  His 
family  seldom  had  news  of  him ;  but  a  few  days  before  Spain 
recognized  the  independence  of  the  American  Republics,  he 
wrote  that  he  was  coming  home. 

So,  one  fine  morning,  it  happened  that  several  French  mer- 
chants were  on  board  a  Spanish  brig  that  lay  a  few  leagues 
out  from  Bordeaux,  impatient  to  reach  their  native  land 
again,  with  wealth  acquired  by  long  years  of  toil  and  perilous 
adventures  in  Venezuela  and  Mexico. 

One  of  the  passengers,  a  man  who  looked  aged  by  trouble 
rather  than  by  years,  was  leaning  against  the  bulwark  netting, 
apparently  quite  unaffected  by  the  sight  to  be  seen  from  the 
upper  deck.  The  bright  day,  the  sense  that  the  voyage  was 
safely  over,  had  brought  all  the  passengers  above  to  greet  their 
land.  The  larger  number  of  them  insisted  that  they  could 
see,  far  off  in  the  distance,  the  houses  and  lighthouses  on  the 
coast  of  Gascony  and  the  Tower  of  Cordouan,  melting  into  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  159 

fantastic  erections  of  white  cloud  along  the  horizon.  But 
for  the  silver  fringe  that  played  about  their  bows,  and  the 
long  furrow  swiftly  effaced  in  their  wake,  they  might  have 
been  perfectly  still  in  mid-ocean,  so  calm  was  the  sea.  The 
sky  was  magically  clear,  the  dark  blue  of  the  vault  above 
paled  by  imperceptible  gradations,  until  it  blended  with  the 
bluish  water,  a  gleaming  line  that  sparkled  like  stars  mark- 
ing the  dividing  line  of  sea.  The  sunlight  caught  myriads  of 
facets  over  the  wide  surface  of  the  ocean,  in  such  a  sort  that 
the  vast  plains  of  salt  water  looked  perhaps  more  full  of 
light  than  the  fields  of  sky. 

The  brig  had  set  all  her  canvas.  The  snowy  sails, 
swelled  by  the  strangely  soft  wind,  the  labyrinth  of  cordage, 
and  the  yellow  flags  flying  at  the  masthead,  all  stood  out 
sharp  and  uncompromisingly  clear  against  the  vivid  back- 
ground of  space,  sky,  and  sea ;  there  was  nothing  to  alter  the 
color  but  the  shadow  cast  by  the  great  cloudlike  sails. 

A  glorious  day,  a  fair  wind,  and  the  fatherland  in  sight, 
a  sea  like  a  mill-pond,  the  melancholy  sound  of  the  ripples, 
a  fair,  solitary  vessel,  gliding  across  the  surface  of  the  water 
like  a  woman  stealing  out  to  a  tryst — it  was  a  picture  full  of 
harmony.  That  mere  speck  full  of  movement  was  a  starting- 
point  whence  the  soul  of  man  could  descry  the  immutable  vast 
of  space.  Solitude  and  bustling  life,  silence  and  sound,  were 
all  brought  together  in  strange  abrupt  contrast ;  you  could  not 
tell  where  life,  or  sound,  or  silence,  and  nothingness  lay,  and 
no  human  voice  broke  the  divine  spell. 

The  Spanish  captain,  the  crew,  and  the  French  passengers 
sat  or  stood,  in  a  mood  of  devout  ecstasy,  in  which  many 
memories  blended.  There  was  idleness  in  the  air.  The  beam- 
ing faces  told  of  complete  forgetfulness  of  past  hardships, 
the  men  were  rocked  on  the  fair  vessel  as  in  a  golden  dream. 
Yet,  from  time  to  time  the  elderly  passenger,  leaning  oven 
the  bulwark  nettings,  looked  with  something  like  uneasiness 
at  the  horizon.  Distrust  of  the  ways  of  Fate  could  be  read 
in  his  whole  face ;  he  seemed  to  fear  that  he  should  not  reach 
the  coast  of  France  in  time.  This  was  the  Marquis.  For 


160  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

tune  had  not  been  deaf  to  his  despairing  cry  and  struggles. 
After  five  years  of  endeavor  and  painful  toil,  he  was  a 
wealthy  man  once  more.  In  his  impatience  tc  reach  his 
home  again  and  to  bring  the  good  news  to  his  family,  he 
had  followed  the  example  set  by  some  French  merchants  in 
Havana,  and  embarked  with  them  on  a  Spanish  vessel  with 
a  cargo  for  Bordeaux.  And  now,  grown  tired  of  evil  fore- 
bodings, his  fancy  was  tracing  out  for  him  the  most  delicious 
pictures  of  past  happiness.  In  that  far-off  brown  line  of  land 
he  seemed  to  see  his  wife  and  children.  He  sat  in  his  place 
by  the  fireside;  they  were  crowding  about  him;  he  felt  their 
caresses.  Mo'ina  had  grown  to  be  a  young  girl;  she  was 
beautiful,  and  tall,  and  striking.  The  fancied  picture  had 
grown  almost  real,  when  the  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and,  to  hide 
his  emotion,  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  sea-line,  opposite 
the  hazy  streak  that  meant  land. 

"There  she  is  again.  .  .  .  She  is  following  us!"  he 
said. 

"What?"  cried  the  Spanish  captain. 

"There  is  a  vessel,"  muttered  the  General. 

"I  saw  her  yesterday,"  answered  Captain  Gomez.  He  looked 
at  his  interlocutor  as  if  to  ask  what  he  thought;  then  he 
added,  in  the  General's  ear,  "She  has  been  chasing  us  all 
along." 

"Then  why  she  has  not  come  up  with  us,  I  do  not  know," 
said  the  General,  "for  she  is  a  faster  sailer  than  your  damned 
Saint-Ferdinand." 

"She  will  have  damaged  herself,  sprung  a  leak " 

"She  is  gaining  on  us !"  the  General  broke  in. 

"She  is  a  Colombian  privateer,"  the  captain  said  in  his 
ear,  "and  we  are  still  six  leagues  from  land,  and  the  wind  is 
dropping." 

"She  is  not  going  ahead,  she  is  flying,  as  if  she  knew  that 
in  two  hours'  time  her  prey  would  escape  her.  What  au- 
dacity !" 

"Audacity !"  cried  the  captain.  "Oh  !  she  is  not  called  the 
Othello  for  nothing.  Not  so  long  back  she  sank  a  Spanish 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  161 

frigate  that  carried  thirty  guns!  This  is  the  one  thing  I 
was  afraid  of,  for  I  had  a  notion  that  she  was  cruising  about 
somewhere  off  the  Antilles. — Aha !"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
as  he  watched  the  sails  of  his  own  vessel,  "the  wind  is  rising; 
we  are  making  way.  Get  through  we  must,  for  'the  Parisian' 
will  show  us  no  mercy." 

"She  is  making  way  too !"  returned  the  General. 

The  Othello  was  scarce  three  leagues  away  by  this  time; 
and  although  the  conversation  between  the  Marquis  and  Cap- 
tain Gomez  had  taken  place  apart,  passengers  and  crew,  at- 
tracted by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  sail,  came  to  that 
side  of  the  vessel.  With  scarcely  an  exception,  however,  they 
took  the  privateer  for  a  merchantman,  and  watched  her  course 
with  interest,  till  all  at  once  a  sailor  shouted  with  some  energy 
of  language : 

"By  Saint- James,  it  is  all  up  with  us!  Yonder  is  the 
Parisian  captain  I" 

At  that  terrible  name  dismay,  and  a  panic  impossible  to 
describe,  spread  through  the  brig.  The  Spanish  captain's 
orders  put  energy  into  the  crew  for  a  while ;  and  in  his  reso- 
lute determination  to  make  land  at  all  costs,  he  set  all  the 
studding  sails,  and  crowded  on  every  stitch  of  canvas  on  board. 
But  all  this  was  not  the  work  of  a  moment;  and  naturally 
the  men  did  not  work  together  with  that  wonderful  unanimity 
so  fascinating  to  watch  on  board  a  man-of-war.  The  Othello 
meanwhile,  thanks  to  the  trimming  of  her  sails,  flew  over  the 
water  like  a  swallow;  but  she  was  making,  to  all  appearance, 
so  little  headway,  that  the  unlucky  Frenchmen  began  to  en- 
tertain sweet  delusive  hopes.  At  last,  after  unheard-of  ef- 
forts, the  Saint-Ferdinand  sprang  forward,  Gomez  himself 
directing  the  shifting  of  the  sheets  with  voice  and  gesture, 
when  all  at  once  the  man  at  the  tiller,  steering  at  random 
(purposely,  no  doubt),  swung  the  vessel  round.  The  wind 
striking  athwart  the  beam,  the  sails  shivered  so  unexpectedly 
that  the  brig  heeled  to  one  side,  the  booms  were  carried  away, 
and  the  vessel  was  completely  out  of  hand.  The  captain's 

face  grew  whiter  than  his  sails  with  unutterable  rage.     He 
VOL.  5—35 


162  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

sprang  upon  the  man  at  the  tiller,  drove  his  dagger  at  him 
in  such  blind  fury,  that  he  missed  him,  and  hurled  the  weapon 
overboard.  Gomez  took  the  helm  himself,  and  strove  to  right 
the  gallant  vessel.  Tears  of  despair  rose  to  his  eyes,  for  it  is 
harder  to  lose  the  result  of  our  carefully-laid  plans  through 
treachery  than  to  face  imminent  death.  But  the  more  the 
captain  swore,  the  less  the  men  worked,  and  it  was  he  himself 
who  fired  the  alarm-gun,  hoping  to  be  heard  on  shore.  The 
privateer,  now  gaining  hopelessly  upon  them,  replied  with  a 
cannon-shot,  which  struck  the  water  ten  fathoms  away  from 
the  Saint-Ferdinand. 

"Thunder  of  heaven !"  cried  the  General,  "that  was  a  close 
shave !  They  must  have  guns  made  on  purpose." 

"Oh !  when  that  one  yonder  speaks,  look  you,  you  have 
to  hold  your  tongue,"  said  a  sailor.  "The  Parisian  would  not 
be  afraid  to  meet  an  English  man-of-war." 

"It  is  all  over  with  us,"  the  captain  cried  in  desperation; 
he  had  pointed  his  telescope  landwards,  and  saw  not  a  sign 
from  the  shore.  "We  are  further  from  the  coast  than  I 
thought." 

"Why  do  you  despair?"  asked  the  General.  "All  your 
passengers  are  Frenchmen;  they  have  chartered  your  vessel. 
The  privateer  is  a  Parisian,  you  say?  Well  and  good,  run 
up  the  white  flag,  and — 

"And  he  would  run  us  down,"  retorted  the  captain.  "He 
can  be  anything  he  likes  when  he  has  a  mind  to  seize  on  a 
rich  booty !" 

"Oh!  if  he  is  a  pirate " 

"Pirate !"  said  the  ferocious  looking  sailor.  "Oh !  he  al- 
ways has  the  law  on  his  side,  or  he  knows  how  to  be  on  the 
same  side  as  the  law." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  General,  raising  his  eyes,  'let  us 
make  up  our  minds  to  it,"  and  his  remaining  fortitude  was 
still  sufficient  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  before  a  second 
cannon-shot,  better  aimed,  came  crashing  through  the  hull 
of  the  Saint-Ferdinand. 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  163 

"Heave  to !"  cried  the  captain  gloomily. 

The  sailor  who  had  commended  the  Parisian's  law-abiding 
proclivities  showed  himself  a  clever  hand  at  working  a  ship 
after  this  desperate  order  was  given.  The  crew  waited  for 
half  an  hour  in  an  agony  of  suspense  and  the  deepest  dismay. 
The  Saint-Ferdinand  had  four  millions  of  piastres  on  board, 
the  whole  fortunes  of  the  five  passengers,  and  the  General's 
eleven  hundred  thousand  francs.  At  length  the  Othello  lay 
not  ten  gunshots  away,  so  that  those  on  the  Saint-Ferdinand 
could  look  into  the  muzzles  of  her  loaded  guns.  The  vessel 
seemed  to  be  borne  along  by  a  breeze  sent  by  the  Devil  him- 
self, but  the  eyes  of  an  expert  would  have  discovered  the 
secret  of  her  speed  at  once.  You  had  but  to  look  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  rake  of  her  stern,  her  long,  narrow  keel,  her  tall 
masts,  to  see  the  cut  of  her  sails,  the  wonderful  lightness  of 
her  rigging,  and  the  ease  and  perfect  seamanship  with  which 
her  crew  trimmed  her  sails  to  the  wind.  Everything  about 
her  gave  the  impression  of  the  security  of  power  in  this  deli- 
cately curved  inanimate  creature,  swift  and  intelligent  as  a 
greyhound  or  some  bird  of  prey.  The  privateer  crew  stood 
silent,  ready  in  case  of  resistance  to  shatter  the  wretched  mer- 
chantman, which,  luckily  for  her,  remained  motionless,  like 
a  schoolboy  caught  in  flagrant  delict  by  a  master. 

<rWe  have  guns  on  board  !"  cried  the  General,  clutching  the 
Spanish  captain's  hand.  But  the  courage  in  Gomez's  eyes  was 
the  courage  of  despair. 

"Have  we  men?"  he  said. 

The  Marquis  looked  round  at  the  crew  of  the  Saint-Fer- 
dinand, and  a  cold  chill  ran  through  him.  There  stood  the 
four  merchants,  pale  and  quaking  for  fear,  while  the  crew 
gathered  about  some  of  their  own  number  who  appeared  to 
be  arranging  to  go  over  in  a  body  to  the  enemy.  They 
watched  the  Othello  with  greed  and  curiosity  in  their  faces. 
The  captain,  the  Marquis,  and  the  mate  exchanged  glances; 
they  were  the  only  three  who  had  a  thought  for  any  but 
themselves. 

"Ah!  Captain  Gomez,  when  I  left  my  home  and  country, 


164  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

my  heart  was  half  dead  with  the  bitterness  of  parting,  and 
now  must  I  bid  it  good-bye  once  more  when  I  am  bringing 
back  happiness  and  ease  for  my  children?" 

The  General  turned  his  head  away  towards  the  sea,  with 
tears  of  rage  in  his  eyes — and  saw  the  steersman  swimming 
out  to  the  privateer. 

"This  time  it  will  be  good-bye  for  good,"  said  the  captain 
by  way  of  answer,  and  the  dazed  look  in  the  Frenchman's 
eyes  startled  the  Spaniard. 

By  this  time  the  two  vessels  were  almost  alongside,  and 
at  the  first  sight  of  the  enemy's  crew  the  General  saw  that 
Gomez's  gloomy  prophecy  was  only  too  true.  The  three  men 
at  each  gun  might  have  been  bronze  statues,  standing  like 
athletes,  with  their  rugged  features,  their  bare  sinewy  arms, 
men  whom  Death  himself  had  scarcely  thrown  off  their  feet. 

The  rest  of  the  crew,  well  armed,  active,  light,  and  vigorous, 
also  stood  motionless.  Toil  had  hardened,  and  the  sun  had 
deeply  tanned,  those  energetic  faces;  their  eyes  glittered  like 
sparks  of  fire  with  infernal  glee  and  clear-sighted  courage. 
Perfect  silence  on  the  upper  deck,  now  black  with  men.  bore 
abundant  testimony  to  the  rigorous  discipline  and  strong  will 
which  held  these  fiends  incarnate  in  check. 

The  captain  of  the  Othello  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the 
foot  of  the  main  mast;  he  carried  no  weapons,  but  an  axe 
lay  on  the  deck  beside  him.  His  face  was  hidden  by  the 
shadow  of  a  broad  felt  hat.  The  men  looked  like  dogs  crouch- 
ing before  their  master.  Gunners,  soldiers,  and  ship's  crew 
turned  their  eyes  first  on  his  face,  and  then  on  the  merchant 
vessel. 

The  two  brigs  came  up  alongside,  and  the  shock  of  con- 
tact roused  the  privateer  captain  from  his  musings;  he  spoke 
a  word  in  the  ear  of  the  lieutenant  who  stood  beside  him. 

"Grappling-irons!"  shouted  the  latter,  and  the  Othello 
grappled  the  Saint-Ferdinand  with  miraculous  quickness. 
The  captain  of  the  privateer  gave  his  orders  in  a  low  voice  to 
the  lieutenant,  who  repeated  them;  the  men,  told  off  in  succes- 
sion for  each  duty,  went  on  the  upper  deck  of  the  Saint-Ferdi- 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  165 

nand,  like  seminarists  going  to  mass.  They  bound  crew  and 
passengers  hand  and  foot  and  seized  the  booty.  In  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  provisions  and  barrels  full  of  piastres  were 
transferred  to  the  Othello;  the  General  thought  that  he  must 
be  dreaming  when  he  himself,  likewise  bound,  was  flung  down 
on  a  bale  of  goods  as  if  he  had  been  part  of  the  cargo. 

A  brief  conference  took  place  between  the  captain  of  the 
privateer  and  his  lieutenant  and  a  sailor,  who  seemed  to  be 
the  mate  of  the  vessel;  then  the  mate  gave  a  whistle,  and 
the  men  jumped  on  board  the  Saint-Ferdinand,  and  com- 
pletely dismantled  her  with  the  nimble  dexterity  of  a  soldier 
who  strips  a  dead  comrade  of  a  coveted  overcoat  and  shoes. 

"It  is  all  over  with  us,"  said  the  Spanish  captain  coolly. 
He  had  eyed  the  three  chiefs  during  their  confabulation,  and 
saw  that  the  sailors  were  proceeding  to  pull  his  vessel  to 
pieces. 

"Why  so?"  asked  the  General. 

"What  would  you  have  them  do  with  us?"  returned  the 
Spaniard.  "They  have  just  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
will  scarcely  sell  the  Saint-Ferdinand  in  any  French  or 
Spanish  port,  so  they  are  going  to  sink  her  to  be  rid  of  her. 
And  as  for  us,  do  you  suppose  that  they  will  put  themselves 
to  the  expense  of  feeding  us,  when  they  don't  know  what 
port  they  are  to  put  into  ?" 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  the  captain's  mouth  before 
a  hideous  outcry  went  up,  followed  by  a  dull  splashing  sound, 
as  several  bodies  were  thrown  overboard.  He  turned,  the 
four  merchants  were  no  longer  to  be  seen,  but  eight  ferocious- 
looking  gunners  were  still  standing  with  their  arms  raised 
above  their  heads.  He  shuddered. 

"What  did  1  tell  you  ?"  the  Spanish  captain  asked  coolly. 

The  Marquis  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  spring.  The  surface 
of  the  sea  was  quite  smooth  again;  he  could  not  so  much  as 
see  the  place  where  his  unhappy  fellow-passengers  had  dis- 
appeared. By  this  time  they  were  sinking  down,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  below  the  waves,  if,  indeed,  the  fish,  had  not  de- 
voured them  already. 


166  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

Only  a  few  paces  away,  the  treacherous  steersman  and  the 
sailor  who  had  boasted  of  the  Parisian's  power  were  fraterniz- 
ing with  the  crew  of  the  Othello,  and  pointing  sut  those 
among  their  own  number  who,  in  their  opinion,  were  worthy 
to  join  the  crew  of  the  privateer.  Then  the  boys  tied  the  rest 
together  by  the  feet  in  spite  of  frightful  oaths.  It  was  soon 
over;  the  eight  gunners  seized  the  doomed  men  and  flung 
them  overboard  without  more  ado,  watching  the  different 
ways  in  which  the  drowning  victims  met  their  death,  their  con- 
tortions, their  last  agony,  with  a  sort  of  malignant  curiosity, 
but  with  no  sign  of  amusement,  surprise,  or  pity.  For  them  it 
was  an  ordinary  event  to  which  seemingly  they  were  quite  ac- 
customed. The  older  men  looked  instead  with  grim,  set 
smiles  at  the  casks  of  piastres  about  the  main  mast. 

The  General  and  Captain  Gomez,  left  seated  on  a  bale  of 
goods,  consulted  each  other  with  well-nigh  hopeless  looks; 
they  were,  in  a  sense,  the  sole  survivors  of  the  Saint-Ferdi- 
nand, for  the  seven  men  pointed  out  by  the  spies  were  trans- 
formed amid  rejoicings  into  Peruvians. 

"What  atrocious  villains !"  the  General  cried.  Loyal  and 
generous  indignation  silenced  prudence  and  pain  on  his  own 
account. 

"They  do  it  because  they  must,"  Gomez  answered  coolly. 
"If  you  came  across  one  of  those  fellows,  you  would  run  him 
through  the  body,  would  you  not?" 

The  lieutenant  now  came  up  to  the  Spaniard. 

"Captain,"  said  he,  "the  Parisian  has  heard  of  you.  He 
says  that  you  are  the  only  man  who  really  knows  the  passages 
of  the  Antilles  and  the  Brazilian  coast.  Will  you ?" 

The  captain  cut  him  short  with  a  scornful  exclamation. 

"I  shall  die  like  a  sailor,"  he  said,  "and  a  loyal  Spaniard 
and  a  Christian.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Heave  him  overboard !"  shouted  the  lieutenant,  and  a 
couple  of  gunners  seized  on  Gomez. 

"You  cowards!"  roared  the  General,  seizing  hold  of  the 
men. 

"Don't  get  too  excited,  old  boy,"  said  the  lieutenant.    "If 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  167 

your  red  ribbon  has  made  some  impression  upon  our  captain, 
I  myself  do  not  care  a  rap  for  it. — You  and  I  will  have  our 
little  bit  of  talk  together  directly." 

A  smothered  sound,  with  no  accompanying  cry,  told  the 
General  that  the  gallant  captain  had  died  "like  a  sailor,"  as  he 
had  said. 

"My  money  or  death !"  cried  the  Marquis,  in  a  fit  of  rage 
terrible  to  see. 

"Ah  !  now  you  talk  sensibly !"  sneered  the  lieutenant.  "That 
is  the  way  to  get  something  out  of  us 

Two  of  the  men  came  up  at  a  sign  and  hastened  to  bind 
the  Frenchman's  feet,  but  with  unlooked-for  boldness  he 
snatched  the  lieutenant's  cutlass  and  laid  about  him  like  a 
cavalry  officer  who  knows  his  business. 

"Brigands  that  you  are !  You  shall  not  chuck  one  of  Na- 
poleon's troopers  over  a  ship's  side  like  an  oyster !" 

At  the  sound  of  pistol  shots  fired  point  blank  at  the  French- 
man, "the  Parisian"  looked  round  from  his  occupation  of 
superintending  the  transfer  of  the  rigging  from  the  Saint- 
Ferdinand.  He  came  up  behind  the  brave  General,  seized 
him,  dragged  him  to  the  side,  and  was  about  to  fling  him 
over  with  no  more  concern  than  if  the  man  had  been  a  broken 
spar.  They  were  at  the  very  edge  when  the  -General  looked 
into  the  tawny  eyes  of  the  man  who  had  stolen  his  daughter. 
The  recognition  was  mutual. 

The  captain  of  the  privateer,  his  arm  still  upraised,  sud- 
denly swung  it  in  the  contrary  direction  as  if  his  victim  was 
but  a  feather  weight,  and  set  him  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
main  mast.  A  murmur  rose  on  the  upper  deck,  but  the  cap- 
tain glanced  round,  and  there  was  a  sudden  silence. 

"This  is  Helene's  father,"  said  the  captain  in  a  clear,  firm 
voice.  "Woe  to  any  one  who  meddles  with  him !" 

A  hurrah  of  joy  went  up  at  the  words,  a  shout  rising  to  the 
sky  like  a  prayer  of  the  church ;  a  cry  like  the  first  high  notes 
of  the  Te  Deum.  The  lads  swung  aloft  in  the  rigging,  the 
men  below  flung  up  their  caps,  the  gunners  pounded  away  on 
the  deck,  there  was  a  general  thrill  of  excitement,  an  outburst 


168  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

of  oaths,  yells.,  and  shrill  cries  in  voluble  chorus.  The  men 
cheered  like  fanatics,  the  General's  misgivings  deepened,  and 
he  grew  uneasy;  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  some  hor- 
rible mystery  in  such  wild  transports. 

"My  daughter!"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 
"Where  is  my  daughter?" 

For  all  answer,  the  captain  of  the  privateer  gave  him  a 
searching  glance,  one  of  those  glances  which  throw  the  bravest 
man  into  a  confusion  which  no  theory  can  explain.  The 
General  was  mute,  not  a  little  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  crew ; 
it  pleased  them  to  see  their  leader  exercise  the  strange  power 
which  he  possessed  over  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 
Then  the  captain  led  the  way  down  a  staircase  and  flung  open 
the  door  of  a  cabin. 

"There  she  is,"  he  said,  and  disappeared,  leaving  the  Gen- 
eral in  a  stupor  of  bewilderment  at  the  scene  before  his  eyes. 

Helene  cried  out  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  sprang  up  from 
the  sofa  on  which  she  was  lying  when  the  door  flew  open. 
So  changed  was  she  that  none  but  a  father's  eyes  could  have 
recognized  her.  The  sun  of  the  tropics  had  brought  warmer 
tones  into  the  once  pale  face,  and  something  of  Oriental 
charm  with  that  wonderful  coloring;  there  was  a  certain 
grandeur  about  her,  a  majestic  firmness,  a  profound  senti- 
ment which  impresses  itself  upon  the  coarsest  nature.  Her 
long,  thick  hair,  falling  in  large  curls  about  her  queenly 
throat,  gave  an  added  idea  of  power  to  the  proud  face.  The 
consciousness  of  that  power  shone  out  from  every  movement, 
every  line  of  Helene's  form.  The  rose-tinted  nostrils  were 
dilated  slightly  with  the  joy  of  triumph;  the  serene  happi- 
ness of  her  life  had  left  its  plain  tokens  in  the  full  develop- 
ment of  her  beauty.  A  certain  indefinable  virginal  grace  met 
in  her  with  the  pride  of  a  woman  who  is  loved.  This  was  a 
slave  and  a  queen,  a  queen  who  would  fain  obey  that  she 
might  reign. 

Her  dress  was  magnificent  and  elegant  in  its  richness; 
India  muslin  was  the  sole  material,  but  her  sofa  and  cushions 
were  of  cashmere.  A  Persian  carpet  covered  the  floor  in  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  169 

large  cabin,  and  her  four  children  playing  at  her  feet  were 
building  castles  of  gems  and  pearl  necklaces  and  jewels  of 
price.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  rare  flowers  in  Sevres 
porcelain  vases  painted  by  Madame  Jacotot;  tiny  South 
American  birds,  like  living  rubies,  sapphires,  and  gold, 
hovered  among  the  Mexican  jessamines  and  camellias.  A 
pianoforte  had  been  fitted  into  the  room,  and  here  and  there 
on  the  paneled  walls,  covered  with  red  silk,  hung  small  pict- 
ures by  great  painters — a  Sunset  by  Hippolyte  Schinner  be- 
side a  Terburg,  one  of  Eaphael's  Madonnas  scarcely  yielded 
in  charm  to  a  sketch  by  Gericault,  while  a  Gerard  Dow 
eclipsed  the  painters  of  the  Empire.  On  a  lacquered  table 
stood  a  golden  plate  full  of  delicious  fruit.  Indeed,  Helene 
might  have  been  the  sovereign  lady  of  some  great  country,  and 
this  cabin  of  hers  a  boudoir  in  which  her  crowned  lover  had 
brought  together  all  earth's  treasure  to  please  his  consort. 
The  children  gazed  with  bright,  keen  eyes  at  their  grand- 
father. Accustomed  as  they  were  to  a  life  of  battle,  storm, 
and  tumult,  they  recalled  the  Eoman  children  in  David's 
Brutus,  watching  the  fighting  and  bloodshed  with  curious  in- 
terest. 

"What !  is  it  possible  ?"  cried  Helene,  catching  her  father's 
arm  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  this  was  no  vision. 

"Helene !" 

"Father !" 

They  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  and  the  old  man's  em- 
brace was  not  so  close  and  warm  as  Helene's. 

"Were  you  on  board  that  vessel  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  sadly,  and  looking  at  the  little  ones, 
who  gathered  about  him  and  gazed  with  wide  open  eyes. 

"I  was  about  to  perish,  but " 

"But  for  my  husband,"  she  broke  in.    "I  see  how  it  was/' 

"Ah !"  cried  the  General,  "why  must  I  find  you  again  like 
this,  Helene?  After  all  the  many  tears  that  I  have  shed, 
must  I  still  groan  for  your  fate?" 

"And  why?"  she  asked,  smiling.  "Why  should  you  be 
sorry  to  learn  that  I  am  the  happiest  woman  under  the  sun  ?'' 

"Happy  T'  he  cried  with  a  start  of  surprise. 


170  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"Yes,  happy,  my  kind  father,"  and  she  caught  his  hands 
in  hers  and  covered  them  with  kisses,  and  pressed  them  to 
her  throbbing  heart.  Her  caresses,  and  a  something  in  the 
carriage  of  her  head,  were  interpreted  yet  more  plainly  by 
the  joy  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

"And  how  is  this  ?"  he  asked,  wondering  at  his  daughter's 
life,  forgetful  now  of  everything  but  the  bright  glowing  face 
before  him. 

"Listen,  father;  I  have  for  lover,  husband,  servant,  and 
master  one  whose  soul  is  as  great  as  the  boundless  sea,  as 
infinite  in  his  kindness  as  heaven,  a  god  on  earth !  Never 
during  these  seven  years  has  a  chance  look,  or  word,  or  gesture 
jarred  in  the  divine  harmony  of  his  talk,  his  love,  his  caresses. 
His  eyes  have  never  met  mine  without  a  gleam  of  happiness 
in  them;  there  has  always  been  a  bright  smile  on  his  lips 
for  me.  On  deck,  his  voice  rises  above  the  thunder  of  storms 
and  the  tumult  of  battle;  but  here  below  it  is  soft  and  melo- 
dious as  Rossini's  music — for  he  ha's  Rossini's  music  sent  for 
me.  I  have  everything  that  woman's  caprice  can  imagine. 
My  wishes  are  more  than  fulfilled.  In  short,  I  am  a  queen  on 
the  seas ;  I  am  obeyed  here  as  perhaps  a  queen  may  be  obeyed. 
— Ah !"  she  cried,  interrupting  herself,  "happy  did  I  say  ? 
Happiness  is  no  word  to  express  such  bliss  as  mine.  All  the 
happiness  that  should  have  fallen  to  all  the  women-  in  the 
world  has  been  my  share.  Knowing  one's  own  great  love  and 
self-devotion,  to  find  in  his  heart  an  infinite  love  in  which  a 
woman's  soul  is  lost,  and  lost  for  ever — tell  me,  is  this  happi- 
ness ?  I  have  lived  through  a  thousand  lives  even  now.  Here, 
I  am  alone;  here,  I  command.  No  other  woman  has  set 
foot  on  this  noble  vessel,  and  Victor  is  never  more  than  a  few 
paces  distant  from  me, — he  cannot  wander  further  from  me 
than  from  stern  to  prow,"  she  added,  with  a  shade  of  mischief 
in  her  manner.  "Seven  years!  A  love  that  outlasts  seven 
years  of  continual  joy,  that  endures  all  the  tests  brought  by 
all  the  moments  that  make  up  seven  years — is  this  love  ?  Oh, 
no,  no!  it  is  something  better  than  all  that  I  know  of  life 
,  .  .  human  language  fails  to  express  the  bliss  of  heaven." 


A   WOMAN   OF    THIRTY  171 

A  sudden  torrent  of  tears  fell  from  her  burning  eyes.  The 
four  little  ones  raised  a  piteous  cry  at  this,  and  flocked  like 
chickens  about  their  mother.  The  oldest  boy  struck  the  Gen- 
eral with  a  threatening  look. 

"Abel,  darling,"  said  Helene,  "I  am  crying  for  joy/* 

Helene  took  him  on  her  knee,  and  the  child  fondled  her, 
putting  his  arms  about  her  queenly  neck,  as  a  lion's  whelp 
might  play  with  the  lioness. 

"Do  you  never  weary  of  your  life  ?"  asked  the  General,  be- 
wildered by  his  daughter's  enthusiastic  language. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "sometimes,  when  we  are  on  land,  yet  even 
then  I  have  never  parted  from  my  husband." 

"But  you  used  to  be  fond  of  music  and  balls  and  fetes." 

"His  voice  is  music  for  me;  and  for  fetes,  I  devise  new 
toilettes  for  him  to  see.  When  he  likes  my  dress,  it  is  as  if 
all  the  world  admired  me.  Simply  for  that  reason  I  keep 
the  diamonds  and  jewels,  the  precious  things,  the  flowers  and 
masterpieces  of  art  that  he  heaps  upon  me,  saying,  'Helene, 
as  you  live  out  of  the  world,  I  will  have  the  world  come  to 
you/  But  for  that  I  would  fling  them  all  overboard." 

"But  there  are  others  on  board,  wild,  reckless  men  whose 
passions " 

"I  understand,  father,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Do  not  fear 
for  me.  Never  was  empress  encompassed  with  more  ob- 
servance than  I.  The  men  are  very  superstitious;  they  look 
upon  me  as  a  sort  of  tutelary  genius,  the  luck  of  the  vessel. 
But  he  is  their  god ;  they  worship  him.  Once,  and  once  only, 
one  of  the  crew  showed  disrespect,  mere  words,"  she  added, 
laughing;  "but  before  Victor  knew  of  it,  the  others  flung 
the  offender  overboard,  although  I  forgave  him.  They  love 
me  as  their  good  angel ;  I  nurse  them  when  they  are  ill ;  sev- 
eral times  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  save  a  life,  by  con- 
stant care  such  as  a  woman  can  give.  Poor  fellows,  they  are 
giants,  but  they  are  children  at  the  same  time." 

"And  when  there  is  fighting  overhead?" 

"I  am  used  to  it  now;  I  quaked  for  fear  during  the  first 
engagement,  but  never  since. — I  am  used  to  such  peril,  and — 
T  am  your  daughter,"  she  said;  "I  love  it." 


172  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

"But  how  if  he  should  fall?" 

"I  should  die  with  him." 

"And  your  children." 

"They  are  children  of  the  sea  and  of  danger;  they  share 
the  life  of  their  parents.  We  have  but  one  life,  and  we  do 
not  flinch  from  it.  We  have  but  the  one  life,  our  names 
are  written  on  the  same  page  of  the  book  of  Fate,  one  skiff 
bears  us  and  our  fortunes,  and  we  know  it." 

"Do  you  so  love  him  that  he  is  more  to  you  than  all  be- 
side?" 

"All  beside  ?"  echoed  she.  "Let  us  leave  that  mystery  alone. 
Yet  stay !  there  is  this  dear  little  one — well,  this  too  is  he" 
and  straining  Abel  to  her  in  a  tight  clasp,  she  set  eager 
kisses  on  his  cheeks  and  hair. 

"But  I  can  never  forget  that  he  has  just  drowned  nine 
men!"  exclaimed  the  General. 

"There  was  no  help  for  it,  doubtless,"  she  said,  "for  he  is 
generous  and  humane.  He  sheds  as  little  blood  as  may  be, 
and  only  in  the  interests  of  the  little  world  which  he  defends, 
and  the  sacred  cause  for  which  he  is  fighting.  Talk  to  him 
about  anything  that  seems  to  you  to  be  wrong,  and  he  will 
convince  you,  you  will  see." 

"There  was  that  crime  of  his,"  muttered  the  General  to 
himself. 

"But  how  if  that  crime  was  a  virtue?"  she  asked,  with 
cold  dignity.  "How  if  man's  justice  had  failed  to  avenge  a 
great  wrong?" 

"But  a  private  revenge !"  exclaimed  her  father. 

"But  what  is  hell,"  she  cried,  "but  a  revenge  through  all 
eternity  for  the  wrong  done  in  a  little  day?" 

"Ah !  you  are  lost !  He  has  bewitched  and  perverted  you. 
You  are  talking  wildly." 

"Stay  with  us  one  day,  father,  and  if  you  will  but  listen  to 
him,  and  see  him,  you  will  love  him." 

"Helene,  France  lies  only  a  few  leagues  away,"  he  said 
gravely. 

Helene   trembled;  then   she   went   to   the   porthole   and 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  173 

pointed  to  the  savannas  of  green  water  spreading  far  and 
wide. 

"There  lies  my  country/'  she  said,  tapping  the  carpet  with 
her  foot. 

"But  are  you  not  coming  with  me  to  see  your  mother  and 
your  sister  and  brothers?" 

"Oh !  yes,"  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  voice,  "if  he  is  will- 
ing, if  he  will  come  with  me." 

"So,"  the  General  said  sternly,  "you  have  neither  country 
nor  kin  now,  Helene?" 

"I  am  his  wife,"  she  answered  proudly,  and  there  was  some- 
thing very  noble  in  her  tone.  "This  is  the  first  happiness 
in  seven  years  that  has  not  come  to  me  through  him,"  she 
said — then,  as  she  caught  her  father's  hand  and  kissed  it — 
"and  this  is  the  first  word  of  reproach  that  I  have  heard." 

"And  your  conscience?" 

"My  conscience ;  he  is  my  conscience !"  she  cried,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  "Here  he  is !  Even  in  the  thick  of  a  fight 
I  can  tell  his  footstep  among  all  the  others  on  deck,"  she 
cried. 

A  sudden  crimson  flushed  her  cheeks  and  glowed  in  her 
features,  her  eyes  lighted  up,  her  complexion  changed  to 
velvet  whiteness,  there  was  joy  and  love  in  every  fibre,  in  the 
blue  veins,  in  the  unconscious  trembling  of  her  whole  frame. 
That  quiver  of  the  sensitive  plant  softened  the  General. 

It  was  as  she  had  said.  The  captain  came  in,  sat  down  in 
an  easy-chair,  took  up  his  oldest  boy,  and  began  to  play  with 
him.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  for  the  General's  deep 
musing  had  grown  vague  and  dreamy,  and  the  daintily  fur- 
nished cabin  and  the  playing  children  seemed  like  a  nest  of 
halcyons,  floating  on  the  waves,  between  sky  and  sea,  safe  in 
the  protection  of  this  man  who  steered  his  way  amid  the 
perils  of  war  and  tempest,  as  other  heads  of  households  guide 
those  in  their  care  among  the  hazards  of  common  life.  He 
gazed  admiringly  at  Helene — a  dreamlike  vision  of  some  sea 
goddess,  gracious  in  her  loveliness,  rich  in  happiness;  all  the 
treasures  about  her  grown  poor  in  comparison  with  the  wealth 


174  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

of  her  nature,  paling  before  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  the 
indefinable  romance  expressed  in  her  and  her  surroundings. 

The  strangeness  of  the  situation  took  the  General  by  sur- 
prise; the  ideas  of  ordinary  life  were  thrown  into  confusion 
by  this  lofty  passion  and  reasoning.  Chill  and  narrow  social 
conventions  faded  away  before  this  picture.  All  these  things 
the  old  soldier  felt,  and  saw  no  less  how  impossible  it  was 
that  his  daughter  should  give  up  so  wide  a  life,  a  life  so  vari- 
ously rich,  filled  to  the  full  with  such  passionate  love.  And 
Helene  had  tasted  danger  without  shrinking;  how  could  she 
return  to  the  petty  stage,  the  superficial  circumscribed  life 
of  society? 

It  was  the  captain  who  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"Am  I  in  the  way?"  he  asked,  looking  at  his  wife. 

"No,"  said  the  General,  answering  for  her.  "Helene  has 
told  me  all.  I  see  that  she  is  lost  to  us " 

"No,"  the  captain  put  in  quickly ;  "in  a  few  years'  time  the 
statute  of  limitations  will  allow  me  to  go  back  to  France. 
When  the  conscience  is  clear,  and  a  man  has  broken  the  law 
in  obedience  to "  he  stopped  short,  as  if  scorning  to  jus- 
tify himself. 

"How  can  you  commit  new  murders,  such  as  I  have  seen 
with  my  own  eyes,  without  remorse  ?" 

"We  had  no  provisions,"  the  privateer  captain  retorted 
calmly. 

"But  if  you  had  set  the  men  ashore " 

''They  would  have  given  the  alarm  and  sent  a  man-of-war 
after  us,  and  we  should  never  have  seen  Chili  again." 

"Before  France  would  have  given  warning  to  the  Spanish 
admiralty "  began  the  General. 

"But  France  might  take  it  amiss  that  a  man,  with  a  war- 
rant still  out  against  him,  should  seize  a  brig  chartered  by 
Bordeaux  merchants.  And  for  that  matter,  have  you  never 
fired  a  shot  or  so  too  many  in  battle?" 

The  General  shrank  under  the  other's  eyes.  He  said  no 
more,  and  his  daughter  looked  at  him  half  sadly,  half  tri- 
umphant. 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTT  175 

"General,"  the  privateer  continued,  in  a  deep  voice,  "I  have 
made  it  a  rule  to  abstract  nothing  from  booty.  But  even  so, 
my  share  will  beyond  a  doubt  be  far  larger  than  your  for- 
tune. Permit  me  to  return  it  to  you  in  another  form 

He  drew  a  pile  of  banknotes  from  the  piano,  and  with- 
out counting  the  packets  handed  a  million  of  francs  to  the 
Marquis. 

"You  can  understand,"  he  said,  "that  I  cannot  spend  my 
time  in  watching  vessels  pass  by  to  Bordeaux.  So  unless  the 
dangers  of  this  Bohemian  life  of  ours  have  some  attraction 
for  you,  unless  you  care  to  see  South  America  and  the  nights 
of  the  tropics,  and  a  bit  of  fighting  now  and  again  for  the 
pleasure  of  helping  to  win  a  triumph  for  a  young  nation,  or 
for  the  name  of  Simon  Bolivar,  we  must  part.  The  long  boat 
manned  with  a  trustworthy  crew  is  ready  for  you.  And  now 
let  us  hope  that  our  third  meeting  will  be  completely  happy." 

"Victor,"  said  Helene  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  "I  should  like 
to  see  a  little  more  of  my  father." 

"Ten  minutes  more  or  less  may  bring  up  a  French  frigate. 
However,  so  be  it,  we  shall  have  a  little  fun.  The  men  find 
things  dull." 

"Oh,  iather,  go !"  cried  Helene,  "and  take  these  keepsakes 
from  me  to  my  sister  and  brothers  and — mother,"  she  added. 
She  caught  up  a  handful  of  jewels  and  precious  stones,  folded 
them  in  an  Indian  shawl,  and  timidly  held  it  out. 

"But  what  shall  I  say  to  them  from  you  ?"  asked  he.  Her 
hesitation  on  the  word  "mother"  seemed  to  have  struck  him. 

"Oh !  can  you  doubt  me  ?  I  pray  for  their  happiness  every 
day." 

"Helene,"  he  began,  as  he  watched  her  closely,  "how  if  we 
should  not  meet  again?  Shall  I  never  know  why  you  left 
us?" 

"That  secret  is  not  mine,"  she  answered  gravely.  "Even 
if  I  had  the  right  to  tell  it,  perhaps  I  should  not.  For  ten 
years  I  was  more  miserable  than  words  can  say " 

She  broke  off,  and  gave  her  father  the  presents  for  her  fam- 
ily. The  General  had  acquired  tolerably  easy  views  as  to 


176  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

booty  in  the  course  of  a  soldier's  career,  so  he  took  Helene's 
gifts  and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection  that  the  Pa- 
risian captain  was  sure  to  wage  war  against  the  Spaniards  as 
an  honorable  man,  under  the  influence  of  Helene's  pure  and 
high-minded  nature.  His  passion  for  courage  carried  all 
before  it.  It  was  ridiculous,  he  thought,  to  be  squeamish  in 
the  matter;  so  he  shook  hands  cordially  with  his  captor,  and 
kissed  Helene,  his  only  daughter,  with  a  soldier's  expansive- 
ness;  letting  fall  a  tear  on  the  face  with  the  proud,  strong 
look  that  once  he  had  loved  to  see.  "The  Parisian,"  deeply 
moved,  brought  the  children  for  his  blessing.  The  parting 
was  over,  the  last  good-bye  was  a  long  farewell  look,  with 
something  of  tender  regret  on  either  side. 

A  strange  sight  to  seaward  met  the  General's  eyes.  The 
Saint-Ferdinand  was  blazing  like  a  huge  bonfire.  The  men 
told  off  to  sink  the  Spanish  brig  had  found  a  cargo  of  rum  on 
board;  and  as  the  Othello  was  already  amply  supplied,  had 
lighted  a  floating  bowl  of  punch  on  the  high  seas,  by  way  of  a 
joke ;  a  pleasantry  pardonable  enough  in  sailors,  who  hail  any 
chance  excitement  as  a  relief  from  the  apparent  monotony  of 
life  at  sea.  As  the  General  went  over  the  side  into  the  long- 
boat of  the  Saint-Ferdinand,  manned  by  six  vigorous  row- 
ers, he  could  not  help  looking  at  the  burning  vessel,  as  well 
as  at  the  daughter  who  stood  by  her  husband's  side  on  the 
stern  of  the  Othello.  He  saw  Helene's  white  dress  flutter 
like  one  more  sail  in  the  breeze ;  he  saw  the  tall,  noble  figure 
against  a  background  of  sea,  queenly  still  even  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Ocean;  and  so  many  memories  crowded  up  in  his 
mind,  that,  with  a  soldier's  recklessness  of  life,  he  forgot  that 
he  was  being  borne  over  the  grave  of  the  brave  Gomez. 

A  vast  column  of  smoke  rising  spread  like  a  brown  cloud, 
pierced  here  and  there  by  fantastic  shafts  of  sunlight.  It 
was  a  second  sky,  a  murky  dome  reflecting  the  glow  of  the 
fire  as  if  the  under  surface  had  been  burnished ;  but  above  it 
soared  the  unchanging  blue  of  the  firmament,  a  thousand 
times  fairer  for  the  short-lived  contrast.  The  strange  hues 
of  the  smoke  cloud,  black  and  red,  tawny  and  pale  by  turns, 


A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  177 

blurred  and  blending  into  each  other,  shrouded  the  burn- 
ing vessel  as  it  flared,  crackled  and  groaned ;  the  hissing 
tongues  of  flame  licked  up  the  rigging,  and  flashed  across 
the  hull,  like  a  rumor  of  riot  flashing  along  the  streets  of  a 
city.  The  burning  rum  sent  up  blue  flitting  lights.  Some 
sea  god  might  have  been  stirring  the  furious  liquor  as  a  stu- 
dent stirs  the  joyous  flames  of  punch  in  an  orgy.  But  in  the 
overpowering  sunlight,  jealous  of  the  insolent  blaze,  the  colors 
were  scarcely  visible,  and  the  smoke  was  but  a  film  fluttering 
like  a  thin  scarf  in  the  noonday  torrent  of  light  and  heat. 

The  Othello  made  the  most  of  the  little  wind  she  could 
gain  to  fly  on  her  new  course.  Swaying  first  to  one  side,  then 
to  the  other,  like  a  stag  beetle  on  the  wing,  the  fair  vessel 
beat  to  windward  on  her  zigzag  flight  to  the  south.  Some- 
times she  was  hidden  from  sight  by  the  straight  column  of 
smoke  that  flung  fantastic  shadows  across  the  water,  then 
gracefully  she  shot  out  clear  of  it,  and  Helene,  catching  sight 
of  her  father,  waved  her  handkerchief  for  yet  one  more  fare- 
well greeting. 

A  few  more  minutes,  and  the  Saint-Ferdinand  went  down 
with  a  bubbling  turmoil,  at  once  effaced  by  the  ocean. 
Nothing  of  all  that  had  been  was  left  but  a  smoke  cloud  hang- 
ing in  the  breeze.  The  Othello  was  far  away,  the  long-boat 
had  almost  reached  land,  the  cloud  came  between  the  frail 
skiff  and  the  brig,  and  it  was  through  a  break  in  the  swaying 
smoke  that  the  General  caught  the  last  glimpse  of  Helene. 
A  prophetic  vision !  Her  dress  and  her  white  handkerchief 
stood  out  against  the  murky  background.  Then  the  brig 
was  not  even  visible  between  the  green  water  and  the  blue  sky, 
and  Helene  was  nothing  but  an  imperceptible  speck,  a  faint 
graceful  line,  an  angel  in  heaven,  a  mental  image,  a  memory. 

The  Marquis  had  retrieved  his  fortunes,  when  he  died, 
worn  out  with  toil.  A  few  months  after  his  death,  in  1833, 
the  Marquise  was  obliged  to  take  Moi'na  to  a  watering-place 
in  the  Pyrenees,  for  the  capricious  child  had  a  wish  to  see 
the  beautiful  mountain  scenery.  They  left  the  baths,  and 
the  following  tragical  incident  occurred  on  their  way  home. 
VOL.  5—36 


178  A   WOMAN   OF  THIKTY 

"Dear  me,  mother,"  said  Moi'na,  "it  was  very  foolish  of  us 
not  to  stay  among  the  mountains  a  few  days  longer.  It  was 
much  nicer  there.  Did  you  hear  that  horrid  child  moaning 
all  night,  and  that  wretched  woman,  gabbling  away  in  patois 
no  doubt,  for  I  could  not  understand  a  single  word  she  said. 
What  kind  of  people  can  they  have  put  in  the  next  room  to 
ours?  This  is  one  of  the  horridest  nights  I  have  ever  spent 
in  my  life." 

"I  heard  nothing,"  said  the  Marquise,  "but  I  will  see  the 
landlady,  darling,  and  engage  the  next  room,  and  then  we 
shall  have  the  whole  suite  of  rooms  to  ourselves,  and  there 
will  be  no  more  noise.  How  do  you  feel  this  morning?  Are 
you  tired?" 

As  she  spoke,  the  Marquise  rose  and  went  to  Moma's  bed- 
side. 

"Let  us  see,"  she  said,  feeling  for  the  girl's  hand. 

"Oh !  let  me  alone,  mother,"  said  Moina ;  "your  fingers  are 
cold." 

She  turned  her  head  round  on  the  pillow  as  she  spoke,  pet- 
tishly, but  with  such  engaging  grace,  that  a  mother  could 
scarcely  have  taken  it  amiss.  Just  then  a  wailing  cry  echoed 
through  the  next  room,  a  faint  prolonged  cry,  that  must 
surely  have  gone  to  the  heart  of  any  woman  who  heard  it. 

"Why,  if  you  heard  that  all  night  long,  why  did  you  not 
wake  me?  We  should  have " 

A  deeper  moan  than  any  that  had  gone  before  it  inter- 
rupted the  Marquise. 

"Some  one  is  dying  there,"  she  cried,  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room. 

"Send  Pauline  to  me !"  called  Mo'ina.  "I  shall  get  up  and 
dress." 

The  Marquise  hastened  downstairs,  and  found  the  land- 
lady in  the  courtyard  with  a  little  group  about  her,  appar- 
ently much  interested  in  something  that  she  was  telling  them. 

"Madame,  you  have  put  some  one  in  the  next  room  who 
seems  to  be  very  ill  indeed " 

"Oh !  don't  talk  to  me  about  it !"  cried  the  mistress  of  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  179 

house.  "I  have  just  sent  some  one  for  the  mayor.  Just  im- 
agine it;  it  is  a  woman,  a  poor  unfortunate  creature  that 
came  here  last  night  on  foot.  She  comes  from  Spain;  she 
has  no  passport  and  no  money ;  she  was  carrying  her  baby  on 
her  back,  and  the  child  was  dying.  I  could  not  refuse  to  take 
her  in.  I  went  up  to  see  her  this  morning  myself ;  for  when 
she  turned  up  yesterday,  it  made  me  feel  dreadfully  bad  to 
look  at  her.  Poor  soul !  she  and  the  child  were  lying  in  bed, 
and  both  of  them  at  death's  door.  'Madame,'  says  she,  pull- 
ing a  gold  ring  off  her  finger,  'this  is  all  that  I  have  left; 
take  it  in  payment,  it  will  be  enough;  I  shall  not  stay  here 
long.  Poor  little  one !  we  shall  die  together  soon !'  she  said, 
looking  at  the  child.  I  took  her  ring,  and  I  asked  her  who 
she  was,  but  she  never  would  tell  me  her  name.  ...  I 
have  just  sent  for  the  doctor  and  M.  le  Maire." 

"Why,  you  must  do  all  that  can  be  done  for  her,'5  cried  the 
Marquise.  "Good  heavens !  perhaps  it  is  not  too  late !  I  will 
pay  for  everything  that  is  necessary 

"Ah!  my  lady,  she  looks  to  me  to  be  uncommonly  proud, 
and  I  don't  know  that  she  would  allow  it." 

"I  will  go  to  see  her  at  once." 

The  Marquise  went  up  forthwith  to  the  stranger's  room, 
without  thinking  of  the  shock  that  the  sight  of  her  widow's 
weeds  might  give  to  a  woman  who  was  said  to  be  dying.  At 
the  sight  of  that  dying  woman  the  Marquise  turned  pale.  In 
spite  of  the  changes  wrought  by  fearful  suffering  in  Helene's 
beautiful  face,  she  recognized  her  eldest  daughter. 

But  Helene,  when  she  saw  a  woman  dressed  in  black,  sat 
upright  in  bed  with  a  shriek  of  horror.  Then  she  sank  back ; 
she  knew  her  mother. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  "what  is  to  be 
done  ?  Pauline !  .  .  .  Moina !  .  .  ." 

"Nothing  now  for  me,"  said  Helene,  faintly.  "I  had 

hoped  to  see  my  father  once  more,  but  your  mourning " 

she  broke  off,  clutched  her  child  to  her  heart  as  if  to  give 
it  warmth,  and  kissed  its  forehead.  Then  she  turned  her 
eyes  on  her  mother,  and  the  Marquise  met  the  old  reproach 
in  them,  tempered  with  forgiveness,  it  is  true,  but  still  re- 


180  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

proach.  She  saw  it,  and  would  not  see  it.  She  forgot  that 
Helene  was  the  child  conceived  amid  tears  and  despair,  the 
child  of  duty,  the  cause  of  one  of  the  greatest  sorrows  in  her 
life.  She  stole  to  her  eldest  daughter's  side,  remembering 
nothing  but  that  Helene  was  her  firstborn,  the  child  who  had 
taught  her  to  know  the  joys  of  motherhood.  The  mother's 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "Helene,  my  child !  .  .  ."  she 
cried,  with  her  arms  about  her  daughter. 

Helene  was  silent.  Her  own  babe  had  just  drawn  its  last 
breath  on  her  breast. 

Moina  came  into  the  room  with  Pauline,  her  maid,  and 
the  landlady  and  the  doctor.  The  Marquise  was  holding  her 
daughter's  ice-cold  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  gazing  at  her 
in  despair;  but  the  widowed  woman,  who  had  escaped  ship- 
wreck with  but  one  of  all  her  fair  band  of  children,  spoke 
in  a  voice  that  was  dreadful  to  hear.  "All  this  is  your 
work,"  she  said.  "If  you  had  but  been  for  me  all  that " 

"Moina,  go  !  Go  out  of  the  room,  all  of  you !"  cried  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont,  her  shrill  tones  drowning  Helene's  voice. — "For 
pity's  sake,"  she  continued,  "let  us  not  begin  these  miserable 
quarrels  again  now ;" 

"I  will  be  silent,"  Helene  answered  with  a  preternatural 
effort.  "I  am  a  mother ;  I  know  that  Moina  ought  not  .  .  . 
Where  is  my  child?" 

Moina  came  back,  impelled  by  curiosity. 

"Sister,"  said  the  spoiled  child,  "the  doctor " 

"It  is  all  of  no  use,"  said  Helene.  "Oh !  why  did  I  not  die 
as  a  girl  of  sixteen  when  I  meant  to  take  my  own  life  ?  There 
is  no  happiness  outside  the  laws.  Moina  .  .  .  you  .  .  ." 

Her  head  sank  till  her  face  lay  against  the  face  of  the  little 
one;  in  her  agony  she  strained  her  babe  to  her  breast,  and 
died. 

"Your  sister,  Moina,"  said  Mme.  d'Aiglemont,  bursting 
into  tears  when  she  reached  her  room,  "your  sister  meant  no 
doubt  to  tell  you  that  a  girl  will  never  find  happiness  in  a 
romantic  life,  in  living  as  nobody  else  does,  and,  above  all 
things,  far  away  from  her  mother." 


A  WOY4N   OF  THIRTY  181 

VI. 

THE  OLD  AGE  OF  A  GUILTY  MOTHER 

IT  was  one  of  the  earliest  June  days  of  the  year  1844.  A  lady 
of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  for  she  looked  older  than  her  actual 
age,  was  pacing  up  and  down  one  of  the  sunny  paths  in  the 
garden  of  a  great  mansion  in  the  Rue  Plumet  in  Paris.  It 
was  noon.  The  lady  took  two  or  three  turns  along  the  gently 
winding  garden  walk,  careful  never  to  lose  sight  of  a  certain 
row  of  windows,  to  which  she  seemed  to  give  her  whole  at- 
tention; then  she  sat  down  on  a  bench,  a  piece  of  elegant 
semi-rusticity  made  of  branches  with  the  bark  left  on  the 
wood.  From  the  place  where  she  sat  she  could  look  through 
the  garden  railings  along  the  inner  boulevards  to  the  won- 
derful dome  of  the  Invalides  rising  above  the  crests  of  a  forest 
of  elm-trees,  and  see  the  less  striking  view  of  her  own  grounds 
terminating  in  the  gray  stone  front  of  one  of  the  finest  hotels 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

Silence  lay  over  the  neighboring  gardens,  and  the  boule- 
vards stretching  away  to  the  Invalides.  Day  scarcely  begins 
at  noon  in  that  aristocratic  quarter,  and  masters  and  servants 
are  all  alike  asleep,  or  just  awakening,  unless  some  young 
lady  takes  it  into  her  head  to  go  for  an  early  ride,  or  a  gray- 
headed  diplomatist  rises  betimes  to  redraft  a  protocol. 

The  elderly  lady  stirring  abroad  at  that  hour  was  the  Mar- 
quise d'Aiglemont,  the  mother  of  Mme.  de  Saint-Hereen,  to 
whom  the  great  house  belonged.  The  Marquise  had  made 
over  the  mansion  and  almost  her  whole  fortune  to  her  daugh- 
ter, reserving  only  an  annuity  for  herself. 

The  Comtesse  Moina  de  Saint-Hereen  was  Mme.  d'Aigle- 
mont's  youngest  child.  The  Marquise  had  made  every  sac- 
rifice to  marry  her  daughter  to  the  eldest  son  of  one  of  the 
greatest  houses  of  France;  and  this  was  only  what  might 
have  been  expected,  for  the  lady  had  lost  her  sons,  first  one 
and  then  the  other.  Gustave,  Marquis  d'Aiglemont,  had  died 


182  A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

of  the  cholera;  Abel,  the  second,  had  fallen  in  Algeria.  Gus- 
tave  had  left  a  widow  and  children,  but  the  dowager's  affec- 
tion for  her  sons  had  been  only  moderately  warm,  and  for 
the  next  generation  it  was  decidedly  tepid.  She  was  always 
civil  to  her  daughter-in-law,  but  her  feeling  towards  the 
young  Marquise  was  the  distinctly  conventional  affection 
which  good  taste  and  good  manners  require  us  to  feel  for  our 
relatives.  The  fortunes  of  her  dead  children  having  been  set- 
tled, she  could  devote  her  savings  and  her  own  property  to  her 
darling  Moi'na. 

Moi'na,  beautiful  and  fascinating  from  childhood,  was 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  favorite;  loved  beyond  all  the  others 
with  an  instinctive  or  involuntary  love,  a  fatal  drawing  of 
the  heart,  which  sometimes  seems  inexplicable,  sometimes, 
and  to  a  close  observer,  only  too  easy  to  explain.  Her  dar- 
ling's pretty  face,  the  sound  of  Moina's  voice,  her  ways,  her 
manner,  her  looks  and  gestures,  roused  all  the  deepest  emo- 
tions that  can  stir  a  mother's  heart  with  trouble,  rapture,  or 
delight.  The  springs  of  the  Marquise's  life,  of  yesterday,  to- 
morrow, and  to-day,  lay  in  that  young  heart.  Moi'na,  with 
better  fortune,  had  survived  four  older  children.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  lost  her  eldest  daughter, 
a  charming  girl,  in  a  most  unfortunate  manner,  said  gossip, 
nobody  knew  exactly  what  became  of  her;  and  then  she  lost 
a  little  boy  of  five  by  a  dreadful  accident. 

The  child  of  her  affections  had,  however,  been  spared  to 
her,  and  doubtless  the  Marquise  saw  the  will  of  Heaven  in 
that  fact;  for  of  those  who  had  died,  she  kept  but  very 
shadowy  recollections  in  some  far-off  corner  of  her  heart ;  her 
memories  of  her  dead  children  were  like  the  headstones  on  a 
battlefield,  you  can  scarcely  see  them  for  the  flowers  that  have 
sprung  up  about  them  since.  Of  course,  if  the  world  had 
chosen,  it  might  have  said  some  hard  truths  about  the  Mar- 
quise, might  have  taken  her  to  task  for  shallowness  and  an 
overweening  preference  for  one  child  at  the  expense  of  the 
rest;  but  the  world  of  Paris  is  swept  along  by  the  full  flood 
of  new  events,  new  ideas,  and  new  fashions,  and  it  was  inevi- 


A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY  183 

table  that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  should  be  in  some  sort  allowed 
to  drop  out  of  sight.  So  nobody  thought  of  blaming  her  for 
coldness  or  neglect  which  concerned  no  one,  whereas  her 
quick,  apprehensive  tenderness  for  Moina  was  found  highly 
interesting  by  not  a  few  who  respected  it  as  a  sort  of  super- 
stition. Besides,  the  Marquise  scarcely  went  into  society  at 
all;  and  the  few  families  who  knew  her  thought  of  her  as  a 
kindly,  gentle,  indulgent  woman,  wholly  devoted  to  her  fam- 
ily. What  but  a  curiosity,  keen  indeed,  would  seek  to  pry  be- 
neath the  surface  with  which  the  world  is  quite  satisfied? 
And  what  would  we  not  pardon  to  old  people,  if  only  they  will 
efface  themselves  like  shadows,  and  consent  to  be  regarded 
as  memories  and  nothing  more ! 

Indeed,  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  became  a  kind  of  example  com- 
placently held  up  by  the  younger  generation  to  fathers  of 
families,  and  frequently  cited  to  mothers-in-law.  She  had 
made  over  her  property  to  Mo'ina  in  her  own  lifetime;  the 
young  Countess'  happiness  was  enough  for  her,  she  only 
lived  in  her  daughter.  If  some  cautious  old  person  or  morose 
uncle  here  and  there  condemned  the  course  with — "Perhaps 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  may  be  sorry  some  day  that  she  gave  up 
her  fortune  to  her  daughter;  she  may  be  sure  of  Mo'ina,  but 
how  can  she  be  equally  sure  of  her  son-in-law?" — these 
prophets  were  cried  down  on  all  sides,  and  from  all  sides  a 
chorus  of  praise  went  up  for  Moina. 

"It  ought  to  be  said,  in  justice  to  Mme.  de  Saint-Hereen, 
that  her  mother  cannot  feel  the  slightest  difference,"  re- 
marked a  young  married  woman.  "Mme.  d'Aiglemont  is  ad- 
mirably well  housed.  She  has  a  carriage  at  her  disposal,  and 
can  go  everywhere  just  as  she  used  to  do " 

"Except  to  the  Italiens,"  remarked  a  low  voice.  (This  was 
an  elderly  parasite,  one  of  those  persons  who  show  their  in- 
dependence— as  they  think — by  riddling  their  friends  with 
epigrams.)  "Except  to  the  Italiens.  And  if  the  dowager 
cares  for  anything  on  this  earth  but  her  daughter — it  is 
music.  Such  a  good  performer  she  was  in  her  time !  But  the 
Countess'  box  is  always  full  of  young  butterflies,  and  the 


184  A  WOMAN  OP  THIRTY 

Countess'  mother  would  be  in  the  way;  the  young  lady  is 
talked  about  already  as  a  great  flirt.  So  the  poor  mother 
never  goes  to  the  Italiens." 

"Mme.  de  Saint-Hereen  has  delightful  'At  Homes'  for  her 
mother,"  said  a  rosebud.  "All  Paris  goes  to  her  salon." 

"And  no  one  pays  any  attention  to  the  Marquise,"  returned 
the  parasite. 

"The  fact  is  that  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  is  never  alone,"  re- 
marked a  coxcomb,  siding  with  the  young  women. 

"In  the  morning,"  the  old  observer  continued  in  a  discreet 
voice,  "in  the  morning  dear  Moina  is  asleep.  At  four  o'clock 
dear  Moina  drives  in  the  Bois.  In  the  evening  dear  Mo'ina 
goes  to  a  ball  or  to  the  Bouffes. — Still,  it  is  certainly  true  that 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  has  the  privilege  of  seeing  her  dear  daugh- 
ter while  she  dresses,  and  again  at  dinner,  if  dear  Moina  hap- 
pens to  dine  with  her  mother.  Not  a  week  ago,  sir,"  con- 
tinued the  elderly  person,  laying  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the 
shy  tutor,  a  new  arrival  in  the  house,  "not  a  week  ago,  I  saw 
the  poor  mother,  solitary  and  sad,  by  her  own  fireside. — 
'What  is  the  matter  ?'  I  asked.  The  Marquise  looked  up  smil- 
ing, but  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  had  been  crying. — 'I  was 
thinking  that  it  is  a  strange  thing  that  I  should  be  left  alone 
when  I  have  had  five  children,'  she  said,  'but  that  is  our  des- 
tiny !  And  besides,  I  am  happy  when  I  know  that  Moina  is 
enjoying  herself.' — She  could  say  that  to  me,  for  I  knew  her 
husband  when  he  was  alive.  A  poor  stick  .he  was,  and  un- 
commonly lucky  to  have  such  a  wife;  it  was  certainly  owing 
to  her  that  he  was  made  a  peer  of  France,  and  had  a  place 
at  Court  under  Charles  X." 

Yet  such  mistaken  ideas  get  about  in  social  gossip,  and 
such  mischief  is  done  by  it,  that  the  historian  of  manners  is 
bound  to  exercise  his  discretion,  and  weigh  the  assertions  so 
recklessly  made.  After  all,  who  is  to  say  that  either  mother 
or  daughter  was  right  or  wrong  ?  There  is  but  One  who  can 
read  and  judge  their  hearts !  And  how  often  does  He  wreak 
His  vengeance  in  the  family  circle,  using  throughout  all  time 
children  as  His  instruments  against  their  mothers,  and  fathers 


A   WOMAN   OF  THIRTY  185 

against  their  sons,  raising  up  peoples  against  kings,  and 
princes  against  peoples,  sowing  strife  and  division  every- 
where? And  in  the  world  of  ideas,  are  not  old  opinions  and 
feelings  expelled  by  new  feelings  and  opinions,  much  as 
withered  leaves  are  thrust  forth  by  the  young  leaf-buds  in  the 
spring? — all  in  obedience  to  the  immutable  Scheme;  all  to 
some  end  which  God  alone  knows.  Yet,  surely,  all  things 
proceed  to  Him,  or  rather,  to  Him  all  things  return. 

Such  thoughts  of  religion,  the  natural  thoughts  of  age, 
floated  up  now  and  again  on  the  current  of  Mme.  d'Aigle- 
mont's  thoughts ;  they  were  always  dimly  present  in  her  mind, 
but  sometimes  they  shone  out  clearly,  sometimes  they  were 
carried  under,  like  flowers  tossed  on  the  vexed  surface  of  a 
stormy  sea. 

She  sat  on  the  garden-seat,  tired  with  walking,  exhausted 
with  much  thinking — with  the  long  thoughts  in  which  a 
whole  lifetime  rises  up  before  the  mind,  and  is  spread  out  like 
a  scroll  before  the  eyes  of  those  who  feel  that  Death  is  near. 

If  a  poet  had  chanced  to  pass  along  the  boulevard,  he  would 
have  found  an  interesting  picture  in  the  face  of  this  woman, 
grown  old  before  her  time.  As  she  sat  under  the  dotted 
shadow  of  the  acacia,  the  shadow  the  acacia  casts  at  noon,  a 
thousand  thoughts  were  written  for  all  the  world  to  see  on 
her  features,  pale  and  cold  even  in  the  hot,  bright  sunlight. 
There  was  something  sadder  than  the  sense  of  waning  life  in 
that  expressive  face,  some  trouble  that  went  deeper  than  the 
weariness  of  experience.  It  was  a  face  of  a  type  that  fixes 
you  in  a  moment  among  a  host  of  characterless  faces  that  fail 
to  draw  a  second  glance,  a  face  to  set  you  thinking.  Among 
a  thousand  pictures  in  a  gallery,  you  are  strongly  impressed 
by  the  sublime  anguish  on  the  face  of  some  Madonna  of  Mu- 
rillo's ;  by  some  Beatrice  Cenci  in  which  Guido's  art  portrays 
the  most  touching  innocence  against  a  background  of  horror 
and  crime;  by  the  awe  and  majesty  that  should  encircle  a 
king,  caught  once  and  for  ever  by  Velasquez  in  the  sombre 
face  of  a  Philip  II.,  and  so  is  it  with  some  living  human 
faces;  they  are  tyrannous  pictures  which  speak  to  you,  sub- 


186  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

mit  you  to  searching  scrutiny,  and  give  response  to  your  in- 
most thoughts,  nay,  there  are  faces  that  set  forth  a  whole 
drama,  and  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  stony  face  was  one  of  these 
awful  tragedies,  one  of  such  faces  as  Dante  Alighieri  saw  by 
thousands  in  his  vision. 

For  the  little  season  that  a  woman's  beauty  is  in  flower 
it  serves  her  admirably  well  in  the  dissimulation  to  which 
her  natural  weakness  and  our  social  laws  condemn  her.  A 
young  face  and  rich  color,  and  eyes  that  glow  with  light,  a 
gracious  maze  of  such  subtle,  manifold  lines  and  curves,  flaw- 
less and  perfectly  traced,  is  a  screen  that  hides  everything 
that  stirs  the  woman  within.  A  flush  tells  nothing,  it  only 
heightens  the  coloring  so  brilliant  already;  all  the  fires  that 
burn  within  can  add  little  light  to  the  flame  of  life  in  eyes 
which  only  seem  the  brighter  for  the  flash  of  a  passing  pain. 
Nothing  is  so  discreet  as  a  young  face,  for  nothing  is  less  mo- 
bile ;  it  has  the  serenity,  the  surface  smoothness,  and  the  fresh- 
ness of  a  lake.  There  is  no  character  in  women's  faces  before 
the  age  of  thirty.  The  painter  discovers  nothing  there  but 
pink  and  white,  and  the  smile  and  expression  that  repeat  the 
same  thought  in  the  same  way — a  thought  of  youth  and  love 
that  goes  no  further  than  youth  and  love.  But  the  face  of  an 
old  woman  has  expressed  all  that  lay  in  her  nature;  passion 
has  carved  lines  on  her  features;  love  and  wifehood  and 
motherhood,  and  extremes  of  joy  and  anguish,  have  wrung 
them,  and  left  their  traces  in  a  thousand  wrinkles,  all  of 
which  speak  a  language  of  their  own;  then  is  it  that  a  wo- 
man's face  becomes  sublime  in  its  horror,  beautiful  in  its  mel- 
ancholy, grand  in  its  calm.  If  it  is  permissible  to  carry  the 
strange  metaphor  still  further,  it  might  be  said  that  in  the 
dried-up  lake  you  can  see  the  traces  of  all  the  torrents  that 
once  poured  into  it  and  made  it  what  it  is.  An  old  face  is 
nothing  to  the  frivolous  world ;  the  frivolous  world  is  shocked 
by  the  sight  of  the  destruction  of  such  comeliness  as  it  can 
understand;  a  commonplace  artist  sees  nothing  there.  An 
old  face  is  the  province  of  the  poets  among  poets  of  those  who 
can  recognize  that  something  which  is  called  Beauty,  apart 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  187 

from  all  the  conventions  underlying  so  many  superstitions 
in  art  and  taste. 

Though  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  wore  a  fashionable  bonnet,  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  her  once  black  hair  had  been  bleached  by 
cruel  sorrows ;  yet  her  good  taste  and  the  gracious  acquired  in- 
stincts of  a  woman  of  fashion  could  be  seen  in  the  way  she 
wore  it,  divided  into  two  bandeaux,  following  the  outlines  of 
a  forehead  that  still  retained  some  traces  of  former  dazzling 
beauty,  worn  and  lined  though  it  was.  The  contours  of  her 
face,  the  regularity  of  her  features,  gave  some  idea,  faint  in 
truth,  of  that  beauty  of  which  surely  she  had  once  been 
proud ;  but  those  traces  spoke  still  more  plainly  of  the  anguish 
which  had  laid  it  waste,  of  sharp  pain  that  had  withered 
the  temples,  and  made  those  hollows  in  her  cheeks,  and  em- 
purpled the  eyelids,  and  robbed  them  of  their  lashes,  and  the 
eyes  of  their  charm.  She  was  in  every  way  so  noiseless;  she 
moved  with  a  slow,  self-contained  gravity  that  showed  itself 
in  her  whole  bearing,  and  struck  a  certain  awe  into  others. 
Her  diffident  manner  had  changed  to  positive  shyness,  due  ap- 
parently to  a  habit  now  of  some  years'  growth,  of  effacing 
herself  in  her  daughter's  presence.  She  spoke  very  seldom, 
and  in  the  low  tones  used  by  those  who  perforce  must  live 
within  themselves  a  life  of  reflection  and  concentration. 
This  demeanor  led  others  to  regard  her  with  an  indefinable 
feeling  which  was  neither  awe  nor  compassion,  but  a  mys- 
terious blending  of  the  many  ideas  awakened  in  us  by  com- 
passion and  awe.  Finally,  there  was  something  in  her  wrin- 
kles, in  the  lines  of  her  face,  in  the  look  of  pain  in  those  wan 
eyes  of  hers,  that  bore  eloquent  testimony  to  tears  that  never 
had  fallen,  tears  that  had  been  absorbed  by  her  heart.  Un- 
happy creatures,  accustomed  to  raise  their  eyes  to  heaven,  in 
mute  appeal  against  the  bitterness  of  their  lot,  would  have 
seen  at  once  from  her  eyes  that  she  was  broken  in  to  the  cruel 
discipline  of  ceaseless  prayer,  would  have  discerned  the  al- 
most imperceptible  symptoms  of  the  secret  bruises  which  de- 
stroy all  the  flowers  of  the  soul,  even  the  sentiment  of  mother- 
hood. 


188  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

Painters  have  colors  for  these  portraits,  but  words,  and 
the  mental  images  called  up  by  words,  fail  to  reproduce  such 
impressions  faithfully ;  there  are  mysterious  signs  and  tokens 
iii  the  tones  of  the  coloring  and  in  the  look  of  human  faces, 
which  the  mind  only  seizes  through  the  sense  of  sight;  and 
the  poet  is  fain  to  record  the  tale  of  the  events  which 
wrought  the  havoc  to  make  their  terrible  ravages  understood. 

The  face  spoke  of  cold  and  steady  storm,  an  inward  con- 
flict between  a  mother's  long-suffering  and  the  limitations  of 
our  nature,  for  our  human  affections  are  bounded  by  our  hu- 
manity, and  the  infinite  has  no  place  in  finite  creatures.  Sor- 
row endured  in  silence  had  at  last  produced  an  indefinable 
morbid  something  in  this  woman.  Doubtless  mental  anguish 
had  reacted  on  the  physical  frame,  and  some  disease,  perhaps 
an  aneurism,  was  undermining  Julie's  life.  Deep-seated 
grief  lies  to  all  appearance  very  quietly  in  the  depths  where  it 
is  conceived,  yet,  so  still  and  apparently  dormant  as  it  is,  it 
ceaselessly  corrodes  the  soul,  like  the  terrible  acid  which  eats 
away  crystal. 

Two  tears  made  their  way  down  the  Marquise's  cheeks; 
she  rose  to  her  feet  as  if  some  thought  more  poignant  than 
any  that  preceded  it  had  cut  her  to  the  quick.  She  had 
doubtless  come  to  a  conclusion  as  to  Moi'na's  future ;  and  now, 
foreseeing  clearly  all  the  troubles  in  store  for  her  child,  the 
sorrows  of  her  own  unhappy  life  had  begun  to  weigh  once 
more  upon  her.  The  key  of  her  position  must  be  sought  in 
her  daughter's  situation. 

The  Comte  de  Saint-Hereen  had  been  away  for  nearly  six 
months  on  a  political  mission.  The  Countess,  whether  from 
sheer  giddiness,  or  in  obedience  to  the  countless  instincts  of 
woman's  coquetry,  or  to  essay  its  power — with  all  the  vanity 
of  a  frivolous  fine  lady,  all  the  capricious  waywardness  of  a 
child — was  amusing  herself,  during  her  husband's  absence,  by 
playing  with  the  passion  of  a  clever  but  heartless  man,  dis- 
tracted (so  he  said)  with  love,  the  love  that  combines  readily 
with  every  petty  social  ambition  of  a  self-conceited  coxcomb. 
Mine.  d'Aiglemont,  whose  long  experience  had  given  her  a 


A  WOMAN   OP  THIRTY  189 

knowledge  of  life,  and  taught  her  to  judge  of  men  and  to 
dread  the  world,  watched  the  course  of  this  flirtation,  and 
saw  that  it  could  only  end  in  one  way,  if  her  daughter  should 
fall  into  the  hands  of  an  utterly  unscrupulous  intriguer. 
How  could  it  be  other  than  a  terrible  thought  for  her  that 
her  daughter  listened  willingly  to  this  roue?  Her  darling 
stood  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  she  felt  horribly  sure  of  it, 
yet  dared  not  hold  her  bac-k.  She  was  afraid  of  the  Countess. 
She  knew  too  that  Mo'ina  would  not  listen  to  her  wise  warn- 
ings ;  she  knew  that  she  had  no  influence  over  that  nature — 
iron  for  her,  silken-soft  for  all  others.  Her  mother's  tender- 
ness might  have  led  her  to  sympathize  with  the  troubles  of  a 
passion  called  forth  by  the  nobler  qualities  of  a  lover,  but 
this  was  no  passion — it  was  coquetry,  and  the  Marquise  de- 
spised Alfred  de  Vandenesse,  knowing  that  he  had  entered 
upon  this  flirtation  with  Mo'ina  as  if  it  were  a  game  of  chess. 
But  if  Alfred  de  Vandenesse  made  her  shudder  with  dis- 
gust, she  was  obliged — unhappy  mother ! — to  conceal  the 
strongest  reason  for  her  loathing  in  the  deepest  recesses  of 
her  heart.  She  was  on  terms  of  intimate  friendship  with  the 
Marquis  de  Vandenesse,  the  young  man's  father;  and  this 
friendship,  a  respectable  one  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  excused 
the  son's  constant  presence  in  the  house,  he  professing  an  old 
attachment,  dating  from  childhood,  for  Mme.  de  Saint- 
Hereen.  More  than  this,  in  vain  did  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  nerve 
herself  to  come  between  Mo'ina  and  Alfred  de  Vandenesse 
with  a  terrible  word,  knowing  beforehand  that  she  should  not 
succeed;  knowing  that  the  strong  reason  which  ought  to  sep- 
arate them  would  carry  no  weight;  that  she  should  humiliate 
herself  vainly  in  her  daughter's  eyes.  Alfred  was  too  cor- 
rupt; Mo'ina  too  clever  to  believe  the  revelation;  the  young 
Countess  would  turn  it  off  and  treat  it  as  a  piece  of  ma- 
ternal strategy.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  had  built  her  prison 
walls  with  her  own  hands;  she  had  immured  herself  only  to 
see  Moina's  happiness  ruined  thence  before  she  died ;  she  was 
to  look  on  helplessly  at  the  ruin  of  the  young  life  which  had 
been  her  pride  and  joy  and  comfort,  a  life  a  thousand  times 


190  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

dearer  to  her  than  her  own.  What  words  can  describe  anguish 
so  hideous  beyond  belief,  such  unfathomed  depths  of  pain? 

She  waited  for  Mo'ina  to  rise,  with  the  impatience  and  sick- 
ening dread  of  a  doomed  man,  who  longs  to  have  done  with 
life,  and  turns  cold  at  the  thought  of  the  headsman.  She 
had  braced  herself  for  a  last  effort,  but  perhaps  the  prospect 
of  the  certain  failure  of  the  attempt  was  less  dreadful  to  her 
than  the  fear  of  receiving  yet  again  one  of  those  thrusts  that 
went  to  her  very  heart — before  that  fear  her  courage  ebbed 
away.  Her  mother's  love  had  come  to  this.  To  love  her  child, 
to  be  afraid  of  her,  to  shrink  from  the  thought  of  the  stab, 
yet  to  go  forward.  So  great  is  a  mother's  affection  in  a  lov- 
ing nature,  that  before  it  can  fade  away  into  indifference  the 
mother  herself  must  die  or  find  support  in  some  great  power 
without  her,  in  religion  or  another  love.  Since  the  Marquise 
rose  that  morning,  her  fatal  memory  had  called  up  before  her 
some  of  those  .things,  so  slight  to  all  appearance,  that  make 
landmarks  in  a  life.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a  whole  tragedy 
grows  out  of  a  single  gesture ;  the  tone  in  which  a  few  words 
were  spoken  rends  a  whole  life  in  two;  a  glance  into  indiffer- 
ent eyes  is  the  deathblow  of  the  gladdest  love ;  and,  unhappily, 
such  gestures  and  such  words  were  only  too  familiar  to  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont — she  had  met  so  many  glances  that  wound  the 
soul.  Xo,  there  was  nothing  in  those  memories  to  bid  her 
hope.  On  the  contrary,  everything  went  to  show  that  Alfred 
had  destroyed  her  hold  on  her  daughter's  heart,  that  the 
thought  of  her  was  now  associated  with  duty — not  with  glad- 
ness. In  ways  innumerable,  in  things  that  were  mere  trifles 
in  themselves,  the  Countess'  detestable  conduct  rose  up  be- 
fore her  mother;  and  the  Marquise,  it  may  be,  looked  on 
Moina's  undutifulness  as  a  punishment,  and  found  excuses 
for  her  daughter  in  the  will  of  Heaven,  that  so  she  still  might 
adore  the  hand  that  smote  her. 

Ail  these  things  passed  through  her  memory  that  morning, 
and  each  recollection  wounded  her  afresh  so  sorely,  that  with 
a  very  little  additional  pain  her  brimming  cup  of  bitterness 
must  have  overflowed.  A  cold  look  might  kill  her. 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  191 

The  little  details  of  domestic  life  are  difficult  to  paint; 
but  one  or  two  perhaps  will  suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  the  rest. 

The  Marquise  d'Aiglemont,  for  instance,  had  grown  rather 
deaf,  but  she  could  never  induce  Mo'ina  to  raise  her  voice  for 
her.  Once,  with  the  naivete  of  suffering,  she  had  begged 
Mo'ina  to  repeat  some  remark  which  she  had  failed  to  catch, 
and  Mo'ina  obe}red,  but  with  so  bad  a  grace,  that  Mme. 
d'Aiglemont  had  never  permitted  herself  to  make  her  mod- 
est request  again.  Ever  since  that  day  when  Mo'ina  was  talk- 
ing or  retailing  a  piece  of  news,  her  mother  was  careful  to 
come  near  to  listen;  but  this  infirmity  of  deafness  appeared 
to  put  the  Countess  out  of  patience,  and  she  would  grumble 
thoughtlessly  about  it.  This  instance  is  one  from  among  very 
many  that  must  have  gone  to  the  mother's  heart;  and  yet 
nearly  all  of  them  might  have  escaped  a  close  observer,  they 
consisted  in  faint  shades  of  manner  invisible  to  any  but  a  wo- 
man's eyes.  Take  another  example.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  hap- 
pened to  say  one  day  that  the  Princesse  de  Cadignan  had 
called  upon  her.  "Did  she  come  to  see  you!"  Mo'ina  ex- 
claimed. That  was  all;  but  the  Countess'  voice  and  man- 
ner expressed  surprise  and  well-bred  contempt  in  semitones. 
Any  heart,  still  young  and  sensitive,  might  well  have  ap- 
plauded the  philanthropy  of  savage  tribes  who  kill  off  their 
old  people  when  they  grow  too  feeble  to  cling  to  a  strongly 
shaken  bough.  Mme.  d'Aiglemont  rose  smiling,  and  went 
away  to  weep  alone. 

Well-bred  people,  and  women  especially,  only  betray  their 
feelings  by  imperceptible  touches;  but  those  who  can  look 
back  over  their  own  experience  on  such  bruises  as  this 
mother's  heart  received,  know  also  how  the  heart-strings  vi- 
brate to  these  light  touches.  Overcome  by  her  memories, 
Mme.  d'Aiglemont  recollected  one  of  those  microscopically 
small  things,  so  stinging  and  so  painful  was  it  that  never  till 
this  moment  had  she  felt  all  the  heartless  contempt  that 
lurked  beneath  smiles. 

At  the  sound  of  shutters  thrown  back  at  her  daughter's 
windows,  she  dried  her  tears,  and  hastened  up  the 


192  A  WOMAN   OF  THIRTY 

by  the  railings.  As  she  went,  it  struck  her  that  the  gardener 
had  been  unusually  careful  to  rake  the  sand  along  the  walk 
which  had  been  neglected  for  some  little  time.  As  she  stood 
under  her  daughter's  windows,  the  shutters  were  hastily 
closed. 

"Mo'ina,  is  it  you  ?"  she  asked. 

No  answer. 

The  Marquise  went  on  into  the  house. 

"Mme.  la  Comtesse  is  in  the  little  drawing-room,"  said  the 
maid,  when  the  Marquise  asked  whether  Mme.  de  Saint- 
Hereen  had  finished  dressing. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  hurried  to  the  little  drawing-room ; 
her  heart  was  too  full,  her  brain  too  busy  to  notice  matters 
so  slight;  but  there  on  a  sofa  sat  the  Countess  in  her  loose 
morning-gown,  her  hair  in  disorder  under  the  cap  tossed  care- 
lessly on  her  head,  her  feet  thrust  into  slippers.  The  key  of 
her  bedroom  hung  at  her  girdle.  Her  face,  aglow  with  color, 
bore  traces  of  almost  stormy  thought. 

"What  makes  people  come  in !"  she  cried,  crossly.  "Oh ! 
it  is  you,  mother,"  she  interrupted  herself,  with  a  preoccupied 
look. 

"Yes,  child;  it  is  your  mother " 

Something  in  her  tone  turned  those  words  into  an  outpour- 
ing of  the  heart,  the  cry  of  some  deep  inward  feeling,  only  to 
be  described  by  the  word  "holy."  So  thoroughly  in  truth 
had  she  rehabilitated  the  sacred  character  of  a  mother,  that 
her  daughter  was  impressed,  and  turned  towards  her,  with 
something  of  awe,  uneasiness,  and  remorse  in  her  manner. 
The  room  was  the  furthest  of  a  suite,  and  safe  from  indis- 
creet intrusion,  for  no  one  could  enter  it  without  giving 
warning  of  approach  through  the  previous  apartments.  The 
Marquise  closed  the  door. 

"It  is  my  duty,  my  child,  to  warn  you  in  one  of  the  most 
serious  crises  in  the  lives  of  us  women ;  you  have  perhaps 
reached  it  unconsciously,  and  I  am  come  to  speak  to  you  as  a 
friend  rather  than  as  a  mother.  When  you  married,  you  ac- 
quired freedom  of  action;  von  are  only  accountable  to  your 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  193 

husband  now ;  but  I  asserted  my  authority  so  little  (perhaps 
I  was  wrong),  that  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  expect  you  to 
listen  to  me,  for  once  at  least,  in  a  critical  position  when  you 
must  need  counsel.  Bear  in  mind,  Moina,  that  you  are  mar- 
ried to  a  man  of  high  ability,  a  man  of  whom  you  may  well 
be  proud,  a  man  who 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  mother !"  Moi'na  broke 
in  pettishly.  "I  am  to  be  lectured  about  Alfred — 

"Moma,"  the  Marquise  said  gravely,  as  she  struggled  with 
her  tears,  "you  would  not  guess  at  once  if  you  did  not 
feel " 

"What?"  asked  Moi'na,  almost  haughtily.  "Why,  really, 
mother " 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  summoned  up  all  her  strength. 
"Moi'na,"  she  said,  "you  must  attend  carefully  to  this  that  I 
ought  to  tell  you " 

"I  am  attending,"  returned  the  Countess,  folding  her  arms, 
and  affecting  insolent  submission.  "Permit  me,  mother,  to 
ring  for  Pauline,"  she  added  with  incredible  self-possession; 
"I  will  send  her  away  first." 

She  rang  the  bell. 

"My  dear  child,  Pauline  cannot  possibly  hear " 

"Mamma,"  interrupted  the  Countess,  with  a  gravity 
which  must  have  struck  her  mother  as  something  unusual,  "I 
must 

She  stopped  short,  for  the  woman  was  in  the  room. 

"Pauline,  go  yourself  to  Baudran's,  and  ask  why  my  hat 
has  not  yet  been  sent." 

Then  the  Countess  reseated  herself  and  scrutinized  her 
mother.  The  Marquise,  with  a  swelling  heart  and  dry  eyes, 
in  painful  agitation,  which  none  but  a  mother  can  fully  un- 
derstand, began  to  open  Moina's  eyes  to  the  risk  that  she  was 
running.  But  either  the  Countess  felt  hurt  and  indignant 
at  her  mother's  suspicions  of  a  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Vande- 
nesse,  or  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  inexplicable  lev- 
ity caused  by  the  inexperience  of  youth.  She  took  advan- 
tage of  a  pause. 
VOL.  5—37 


194  A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY 

"Mamma,  I  thought  you  were  only  jealous  of  the  father 
• "  she  said,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  shut  her  eyes  and  bent  her  head  at  the 
words,  with  a  very  faint,  almost  inaudible  sigh.  She  looked 
up  and  out  into  space,  as  if  she  felt  the  common  overmaster- 
ing impulse  to  appeal  to  God  at  the  great  crises  of  our  lives; 
then  she  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
awful  majesty  and  the  expression  of  profound  sorrow. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  hardly  recogniz- 
able, "you  have  been  less  merciful  to  your  mother  than  he 
against  whom  she  sinned;  less  merciful  than  perhaps  God 
Himself  will  be !" 

Mme.  d'Aiglemont  rose;  at  the  door  she  turned;  but  she 
saw  nothing  but  surprise  in  her  daughter's  face.  She  went 
out.  Scarcely  had  she  reached  the  garden  when  her  strength 
failed  her.  There  was  a  violent  pain  at  her  heart,  and  she 
sank  down  on  a  bench.  As  her  eyes  wandered  over  the  path, 
she  saw  fresh  marks  on  the  path,  a  man's  footprints  were 
distinctly  recognizable.  It  was  too  late,  then,  beyond  a  doubt. 
Now  she  began  to  understand  the  reason  for  that  order  given 
to  Pauline,  and  with  these  torturing  thoughts  came  a  revela- 
tion more  hateful  than  any  that  had  gone  before  it.  She 
drew  her  own  inferences — the  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Van- 
denesse  had  destroyed  all  feeling  of  respect  for  her  in  her 
daughter's  mind.  The  physical  pain  grew  worse;  by  degrees 
she  lost  consciousness,  and  sat  like  one  asleep  upon  the  gar- 
den-seat. 

The  Countess  de  Saint-Hereen,  left  to  herself,  thought 
that  her  mother  had  given  her  a  somewhat  shrewd  home- 
thrust,  but  a  kiss  and  a  few  attentions  that  evening  would 
make  all  right  again. 

A  shrill  cry  came  from  the  garden.  She  leaned  carelessly 
out,  as  Pauline,  not  yet  departed  on  her  errand,  called  out 
for  help,  holding  the  Marquise  in  her  arms. 

"Do  not  frighten  my  daughter !"  those  were  the  last  words 
the  mother  uttered. 

Moina  saw  them  carry  in  a  pale  and  lifeless  form  that 


A  WOMAN  OF  THIRTY  195 

struggled  for  breath,  and  arms  moving  restlessly  as  in  pro- 
test or  effort  to  speak ;  and  overcome  by  the  sight,  Moina  fol- 
lowed in  silence,  and  helped  to  undress  her  mother  and  lay 
her  on  her  bed.  The  burden  of  her  fault  was  greater  than 
she  could  bear.  In  that  supreme  hour  she  learned  to  know 
her  mother — too  late,  she  could  make  no  reparation  now. 
She  would  have  them  leave  her  alone  with  her  mother;  and 
when  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  when  she  felt  that  the 
hand  which  had  always  been  so  tender  for  her  was  now  grown 
cold  to  her  touch,  she  broke  out  into  weeping.  Her  tears 
aroused  the  Marquise;  she  could  still  look  at  her  darling 
Mo'ina ;  and  at  the  sound  of  sobbing,  that  seemed  as  if  it  must 
rend  the  delicate,  disheveled  breast,  could  smile  back  at  her 
daughter.  That  smile  taught  the  unnatural  child  that  for- 
giveness is  always  to  be  found  in  the  great  deep  of  a  mother's 
heart. 

Servants  on  horseback  had  been  dispatched  at  once  for  the 
physician  and  surgeon  and  for  Mme.  d'Aiglemont's  grand- 
children. Mme.  d'Aiglemont  the  younger  and  her  little  sons 
arrived  with  the  medical  men,  a  sufficiently  impressive,  silent, 
and  anxious  little  group,  which  the  servants  of  the  house 
came  to  join.  The  j'oung  Marquise,  hearing  no  sound, 
tapped  gently  at  the  door.  That  signal,  doubtless,  roused 
Mo'ina  from  her  grief,  for  she  flung  open  the  doors  and  stood 
before  them.  No  words  could  have  spoken  more  plainly  than 
that  disheveled  figure  looking  out  with  haggard  eyes  upon 
the  assembled  family.  Before  that  living  picture  of  Re- 
morse the  rest  were  dumb.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  Mar- 
quise's feet  were  stretched  out  stark  and  stiff  with  the  agony 
of  death;  and  Mo'ina,  leaning  against  the  door-frame,  look- 
ing into  their  faces,  spoke  in  a  hollow  voice: 

"I  have  lost  my  mother !" 

PARIS,  1828-1844. 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

To  Her  Grace  the  Duchesse  d'Abrantes, 
from  her  devoted  servant, 

Honore  de  Balzac. 

PARES,  August  1835. 

IN  the  early  spring  of  1822,  the  Paris  doctors  sent  to  Lower 
Normandy  a  young  man  just  recovering  from  an  inflamma- 
tory complaint,  brought  on  by  overstudy,  or  perhaps  by  excess 
of  some  other  kind.  His  convalescence  demanded  complete 
rest,  a  light  diet,  bracing  air,  and  freedom  from  excitement 
of  every  kind,  and  the  fat  lands  of  Bessin  seemed  to  offer 
all  these  conditions  of  recovery.  To  Bayeux,  a  picturesque 
place  about  six  miles  from  the  sea,  the  patient  therefore  be- 
took himself,  and  was  received  with  the  cordiality  character- 
istic of  relatives  who  lead  very  retired  lives,  and  regard  a  new 
arrival  as  a  godsend. 

All  little  towns  are  alike,  save  for  a  few  local  customs. 
When  M.  le  Baron  Gaston  de  Nueil,  the  young  Parisian  in 
question,  had  spent  two  or  three  evenings  in  his  cousin's 
house,  or  with  the  friends  who  made  up  Mme.  de  Sainte- 
Severe's  circle,  he  very  soon  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  persons  whom  this  exclusive  society  considered  to  be  "the 
whole  town."  Gaston  de  Nueil  recognized  in  them  the  in- 
variable stock  characters  which  every  observer  finds  in  every 
one  of  the  many  capitals  of  the  little  States  which  made  up 
the  France  of  an  older  day. 

First  of  all  comes  the  family  whose  claims  to  nobility  are 
regarded  as  incontestable,  and  of  the  highest  antiquity  in  the 
department,  though  no  one  has  so  much  as  heard  of  them  a 
bare  fifty  leagues  away.  This  species  of  royal  family  on  a 
small  scale  is  distantly,  but  unmistakably,  connected  with  the 

(197) 


198  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

Navarreins  and  the  Grandlieu  family,  and  related  to  the 
Cadignans,  and  the  Blamont-Chauvrys.  The  head  of  the 
illustrious  house  is  invariably  a  determined  sportsman.  He 
has  no  manners,  crushes  everybody  else  with  his  nominal 
superiority,  tolerates  the  sub-prefect  much  as  he  submits  to 
the  taxes,  and  declines  to  acknowledge  any  of  the  novel 
powers  created  by  the  nineteenth  century,  pointing  out  to 
you  as  a  political  monstrosity  the  fact  that  the  prime  minister 
is  a  man  of  no  birth.  His  wife  takes  a  decided  tone,  and 
talks  in  a  loud  voice.  She  has  had  adorers  in  her  time,  but 
takes  the  sacrament  regularly  at  Easter.  She  brings  up  her 
daughters  badly,  and  is  of  the  opinion  that  they  will  always 
be  rich  enough  with  their  name. 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  has  the  remotest  idea  of  modern 
luxury.  They  retain  a  livery  only  seen  elsewhere  on  the 
stage,  and  cling  to  old  fashions  in  plate,  furniture,  and 
equipages,  as  in  language  and  manner  of  life.  This  is  a  kind 
of  ancient  state,  moreover,  that  suits  passably  well  with  pro- 
vincial thrift.  The  good  folk  are,  in  fact,  the  lords  of  the 
manor  of  a  bygone  age,  minus  the  quitrents  and  heriots,  the 
pack  of  hounds  and  the  laced  coats;  full  of  honor  among 
themselves,  and  one  and  all  loyally  devoted  to  princes  whom 
they  only  see  at  a  distance.  The  historical  house  incognito  is 
as  quaint  a  survival  as  a  piece  of  ancient  tapestry.  Vegetating 
somewhere  among  them  there  is  sure  to  be  an  uncle  or  a 
brother,  a  lieutenant-general,  an  old  courtier  of  the  King's, 
who  wears  the  red  ribbon  of  the  order  of  Saint-Louis,  and 
went  to  Hanover  with  the  Marechal  de  Richelieu:  and  here 
you  will  find  him  like  a  stray  leaf  out  of  some  old  pamphlet 
of  the  time  of  Louis  Quinze. 

This  fossil  greatness  finds  a  rival  in  another  house, 
wealthier,  though  of  less  ancient  lineage.  Husband  and  wife 
spend  a  couple  of  months  of  every  winter  in  Paris,  bringing 
back  with  them  its  frivolous  tone  and  short-lived  contem- 
porary crazes.  Madame  is  a  woman  of  fashion,  though  she 
looks  rather  conscious  of  her  clothes,  and  is  always  behind 
the  mode.  She  scoffs,  however,  at  the  ignorance  affected  by 


THE   DESERTED   WOMAN  199 

her  neighbors.  Her  plate  is  of  modern  fashion;  she  has 
"grooms,"  negroes,  a  valet-de-chambre,  and  what-not.  Her 
oldest  son  drives  a  tilbury,  and  does  nothing  (the  estate  is 
entailed  upon  him),  his  younger  brother  is  auditor  to  a 
Council  of  State.  The  father  is  well  posted  up  in  official 
scandals,  and  tells  you  anecdotes  of  Louis  XVIII.  and 
Madame  du  Cayla.  He  invests  his  money  in  the  five  per 
cents,  and  is  careful  to  'avoid  the  topic  of  cider,  but  has  been 
known  occasionally  to  fall  a  victim  to  the  craze  for  rectify- 
ing the  conjectural  sums-total  of  the  various  fortunes  of 
the  department.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Departmental  Coun- 
cil, has  his  clothes  from  Paris,  and  wears  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  In  short,  he  is  a  country  gentleman  who 
has  fully  grasped  the  significance  of  the  Restoration,  and  is 
coining  money  at  the  Chamber,  but  his  Eoyalism  is  less  pure 
than  that  of  the  rival  house;  he  takes  the  Gazette  &.jd  the 
Debats,  the  other  family  only  read  the  Quotidienne. 

His  lordship  the  Bishop,  a  sometime  Vicar-General, 
fluctuates  between  the  two  powers,  who  pay  him  the  respect 
due  to  religion,  but  at  times  they  bring  home  to  him  the 
moral  appended  by  the  worthy  Lafontaine  to  the  fable  of 
the  Ass  laden  with  Relics.  The  good  man's  origin  is  dis- 
tinctly plebeian. 

Then  come  stars  of  the  second  magnitude,  men  of  family 
with  ten  or  twelve  hundred  livres  a  year,  captains  in  the  navy 
or  cavalry  regiments,  or  nothing  at  all.  Out  on  the  roads, 
on  horseback,  they  rank  half-way  between  the  cure  bearing 
the  sacraments  and  the  tax  collector  on  his  rounds.  Pretty 
nearly  all  of  them  have  been  in  the  Pages  or  in  the  House- 
hold Troops,  and  now  are  peaceably  ending  their  days  in  a 
faisance-valoir,  more  interested  in  felling  timber  and  the 
cider  prospects  than  in  the  Monarchy. 

Still  they  talk  of  the  Charter  and  the  Liberals  while  the 
cards  are  making,  or  over  a  game  at  backgammon,  when  they 
have  exhausted  the  usual  stock  topic  of  dots,  and  have  married 
everybody  off  according  to  the  genealogies  which  they  all 
know  by  heart.  Their  womenkind  are  haughty  dames,  who 


200  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

assume  the  airs  of  Court  ladies  in  their  basket  chaises.  They 
huddle  themselves  up  in  shawls  and  caps  by  way  of  full  dress ; 
and  twice  a  year,  after  ripe  deliberation,  have  a  new  bonnet 
from  Paris,  brought  as  opportunity  oilers.  Exemplary  wives 
are  they  for  the  most  part,  and  garrulous. 

These  are  the  principal  elements  of  aristocratic  gentility, 
with  a  few  outlying  old  maids  of  good  family,  spinsters  who 
have  solved  the  problem:  given  a  human  being,  to  remain 
absolutely  stationary.  They  might  be  sealed  up  in  the  houses 
where  you  see  them ;  their  faces  and  their  dresses  are  literally 
part  of  the  fixtures  of  the  town,  and  the  province  in  which 
they  dwell.  They  are  its  tradition,  its  memory,  its  quintes- 
sence, the  genius  loci  incarnate.  There  is  something  frigid 
and  monumental  about  these  ladies;  they  know  exactly  when 
to  laugh  and  when  to  shake  their  heads,  and  every  now  and 
then  glye  out  some  utterance  which  passes  current  as  a  witti- 
cism. 

A  few  rich  townspeople  have  crept  into  the  miniature  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain,  thanks  to  their  money  or  their  aristo- 
cratic leanings.  But  despite  their  forty  years,  the  circle  still 
say  of  them,  "Young  So-and-so  has  sound  opinions,"  and  of 
such  do  they  make  deputies.  As  a  rule,  the  elderly  spinsters 
are  their  patronesses,  not  without  comment. 

Finally,  in  this  exclusive  little  set  include  two  or  three 
ecclesiastics,  admitted  for  the  sake  of  their  cloth,  or  for  their 
wit ;  for  these  great  nobles  find  their  own  society  rather  dull, 
and  introduce  the  bourgeois  element  into  their  drawing- 
rooms,  as  a  baker  puts  leaven  into  his  dough. 

The  sum-total  contained  by  all  heads  put  together  consists 
of  a  certain  quantity  of  antiquated  notions;  a  few  new  re- 
flections brewed  in  company  of  an  evening  being  added  from 
time  to  time  to  the  common  stock.  Like  sea-water  in  a  little 
creek,  the  phrases  which  represent  these  ideas  surge  up  daily, 
punctually  obeying  the  tidal  laws  of  conversation  in  their 
flow  and  ebb ;  you  hear  the  hollow  echo  of  yesterday,  to-day, 
to-morrow,  a  year  hence,  and  for  evermore.  On  all  things 
here  below  they  pass  immutable  judgments,  which  go  to  make 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  201 

np  a  body  of  tradition  into  which  no  power  of  mortal  man 
can  infuse  one  drop  of  wit  or  sense.  The  lives  of  these  per- 
sons revolve  with  the  regularity  of  clockwork  in  an  orbit  of 
use  and  wont  which  admits  of  no  more  deviation  or  change 
than  their  opinions  on  matters  religious,  political,  moral,  or 
literary. 

If  a  stranger  is  admitted  to  the  cenacle,  every  member  of 
it  in  turn  will  say  (not  without  a  trace  of  irony),  "You  will 
not  find  the  brilliancy  of  your  Parisian  society  here,"  and 
proceed  forthwith  to  criticise  the  life  led  by  his  neighbors, 
as  if  he  himself  were  an  exception  who  had  striven,  and  vainly 
striven,  to  enlighten  the  rest.  But  any  stranger  so  ill  advised 
as  to  concur  in  any  of  their  freely  expressed  criticism  of  each 
other,  is  pronounced  at  once  to  be  an  ill-natured  person,  a 
heathen,  an  outlaw,  a  reprobate  Parisian  "as  Parisians  mostly 
are." 

Before  Gaston  de  Nueil  made  his  appearance  in  this  little 
world  of  strictly  observed  etiquette,  where  every  detail  of  life 
is  an  integrant  part  of  a  whole,  and  everything  is  known; 
where  the  values  of  personalty  and  real  estate  are  quoted  like 
stocks  on  the  vast  sheet  of  the  newspaper — before  his  arrival 
he  had  been  weighed  in  the  unerring  scales  of  Bayeusaine 
judgment. 

His  cousin,  Mme.  de  Sainte-Severe,  had  already  given  out 
the  amount  of  his  fortune,  and  the  sum  of  his  expectations, 
had  produced  the  family  tree,  and  expatiated  on  the  talents, 
breeding,  and  modesty  of  this  particular  branch.  So  he  re- 
ceived the  precise  amount  of  attention  to  which  he  was  en- 
titled; he  was  accepted  as  a  worthy  scion  of  a  good  stock; 
and,  for  he  was  but  twenty-three,  was  made  welcome  without 
ceremony,  though  certain  young  ladies  and  mothers  of 
daughters  looked  not  unkindly  upon  him. 

He  had  an  income  of  eighteen  thousand  livres  from  land 
in  the  valley  of  the  Auge;  and  sooner  or  later  his  father,  as 
in  duty  bound,  would  leave  him  the  chateau  of  Manerville, 
with  the  lands  thereunto  belonging.  As  for  his  education, 
political  career,  personal  qualities,  and  qualifications — no  one 


202  THE   DESERTED   WOMAN 

so  much  as  thought  of  raising  the  questions.  His  land  was 
undeniable,  his  rentals  steady;  excellent  plantations  had  been 
made;  the  tenants  paid  for  repairs,  rates,  and  taxes;  the 
apple-trees  were  thirty-eight  years  old ;  and,  to  crown  all,  his 
father  was  in  treaty  for  two  hundred  acres  of  woodland  just 
outside  the  paternal  park,  which  he  intended  to  enclose  with 
walls.  No  hopes  of  a  political  career,  no  fame  on  earth,  can 
compare  wi^h  such  advantages  as  these. 

Whether  out  of  malice  or  design,  Mme.  de  Sainte-Severe 
omitted  to  mention  that  Gaston  had  an  elder  brother;  nor 
did  Gaston  himself  say  a  word  about  him.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  true  that  the  brother  was  consumptive,  and  to  all 
appearance  would  shortly  be  laid  in  earth,  lamented  and  for- 
gotten. 

At  first  Gaston  de  Nueil  amused  himself  at  the  expense  of 
the  circle.  He  drew,  as  it  were,  for  his  mental  album,  a 
series  of  portraits  of  these  folk,  with  their  angular,  wrinkled 
faces,  and  hooked  noses,  their  crotchets  and  ludicrous  eccen- 
tricities of  dress,  portraits  which  possessed  all  the  racy  flavor 
of  truth.  He  delighted  in  their  "Normanisms,"  in  the 
primitive  quaintness  of  their  ideas  and  characters.  For  a 
phort  time  he  flung  himself  into  their  squirrel's  life  of  busy 
gyrations  in  a  cage.  Then  he  began  to  feel  the  want  of 
variety,  and  grew  tired  of  it.  It  was  like  the  life  of  the 
cloister,  cut  short  before  it  had  well  begun.  He  drifted  on 
till  he  reached  a  crisis,  which  is  neither  spleen  nor  disgust, 
but  combines  all  the  symptoms  of  both.  When  a  human  be- 
ing is  transplanted  into  an  uncongenial  soil,  to  lead  a  starved, 
stunted  existence,  there  is  always  a  little  discomfort  over  the 
transition.  Then,  gradually,  if  nothing  removes  him  from 
his  surroundings,  he  grows  accustomed  to  them,  and  adapts 
himself  to  the  vacuity  which  grows  upon  him  and  renders 
him  powerless.  Even  now,  Gaston's  lungs  were  accustomed 
to  the  air;  and  he  was  willing  to  discern  a  kind  of  vegetable 
happiness  in  days  that  brought  no  mental  exertion  and  no 
responsibilities.  The  constant  stirring  of  the  sap  of  life,  the 
fertilizing  influences  of  mind  on  mind,  after  which  he  had 


THE   DESERTED  WOMAN  203 

sought  so  eagerly  in  Paris,  were  beginning  to  fade  from  his 
memory,  and  he  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  fossil  with 
these  fossils,  and  ending  his  days  among  them,  content,  like 
the  companions  of  Ulysses,  in  his  gross  envelope. 

One  evening  Gaston  de  Xueil  was  seated  between  a  dowager 
and  one  of  the  vicars-general  of  the  diocese,  in  a  gray-paneled 
drawing-room,  floored  with  large  white  tiles.  The  family 
portraits  which  adorned  the  walls  looked  down  upon  four 
card-tables,  and  some  sixteen  persons  gathered  about  them, 
chattering  over  their  whist.  Gaston,  thinking  of  nothing, 
digesting  one  of  those  exquisite  dinners  to  which  the  pro- 
vincial looks  forward  all  through  the  day,  found  himself 
justifying  the  customs  of  the  country. 

He  began  to  understand  why  these  good  folk  continued  to 
play  with  yesterday's  pack  of  cards  and  shuffle  them  on  a 
threadbare  tablecloth,  and  how  it  was  that  they  had  ceased 
to  dress  for  themselves  or  others.  He  saw  the  glimmerings 
of  something  like  a  philosophy  in  the  even  tenor  of  their  per- 
petual round,  in  the  calm  of  their  methodical  monotony,  in 
their  ignorance  of  the  refinements  of  luxury.  Indeed,  he  al- 
most came  to  think  that  luxury  profited  nothing;  and  even 
now,  the  city  of  Paris,  with  its  passions,  storms,  and  pleas- 
ures, was  scarcely  more  than  a  memory  of  childhood. 

He  admired  in  all  sincerity  the  red  hands,  and  shy,  bashful 
manner  of  some  young  lady  who  at  first  struck  him  as  an 
awkward  simpleton,  unattractive  to  the  last  degree,  and  sur- 
passingly ridiculous.  His  doom  was  sealed.  He  had  gone 
from  the  provinces  to  Paris;  he  had  led  the  feverish  life  of 
Paris ;  and  now  he  would  have,  sunk  back  into  the  lifeless  life 
of  the  provinces,  but  for  a  chance  remark  which  reached  his 
ear — a  few  words  that  called  up  a  swift  rush  of  such  emotion 
as  he  might  have  felt  when  a  strain  of  really  great  music 
mingles  with  the  accompaniment  of  some  tedious  opera. 

"You  went  to  call  on  Mme.  de  Beauseant  yesterday,  did 
you  not?"  The  speaker  was  an  elderly  lady,  and  she  ad- 
dressed the  head  of  the  local  royal  family. 

"I  went  this  morning.  She  was  so  poorly  and  depressed, 
that  I  could  not  persuade  her  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow." 


204  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

"With  Mme.  de  Champignelles  ?"  exclaimed  the  dowager, 
with  something  like  astonishment  in  her  manner. 

"With  my  wife,"  calmly  assented  the  noble.  "Mme.  de 
Beauseant  is  descended  from  the  House  of  Burgundy,  on  the 
spindle  side,  'tis  true,  but  the  name  atones  for  everything. 
My  wife  is  very  much  attached  to  the  Vicomtesse,  and  the 
poor  lady  has  lived  alone  for  such  a  long  while,  that " 

The  Marquis  de  Champignelles  looked  round  about  him 
while  he  spoke  with  an  air  of  cool  unconcern,  so  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  guess  whether  he  made  a  concession  to 
Mme.  de  Beauseant's  misfortunes,  or  paid  homage  to  her 
noble  birth;  whether  he  felt  flattered  to  receive  her  in  his 
house,  or,  on  the  contrary,  sheer  pride  was  the  motive  that 
led  him  to  try  to  force  the  country  families  to  meet  the  Vi- 
comtesse. 

The  women  appeared  to  take  counsel  of  each  other  by  a 
glance;  there  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  room,  and  it  was 
felt  that  their  attitude  was  one  of  disapproval. 

"Does  this  Mme.  de  Beauseant  happen  to  be  the  lady  whose 
adventure  with  M.  d'Ajuda-Pinto  made  so  much  noise?" 
asked  Gaston  of  his  neighbor. 

"The  very  same,"  he  was  told.  "She  came  to  Courcelles 
after  the  marriage  of  the  Marquis  d'Ajuda ;  nobody  visits  her. 
She  has,  besides,  too  much  sense  not  to  see  that  she  is  in  a 
false  position,  so  she  has  made  no  attempt  to  see  any  one. 
M.  de  Champignelles  and  a  few  gentlemen  went  to  call  upon 
her,  but  she  would  see  no  one  but  M.  de  Champignelles,  per- 
haps because  he  is  a  connection  of  the  family.  They  are  re- 
lated through  the  Beauseants;  the  father  of  the  present  Vi- 
comte  married  a  Mile,  de  Champignelles  of  the  older  branch. 
But  though  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant  is  supposed  to  be 
a  descendant  of  the  House  of  Burgundy,  you  can  understand 
that  we  could  not  admit  a  wife  separated  from  her  husband 
into  our  society  here.  We  are  foolish  enough  still  to  cling 
to  these  old-fashioned  ideas.  There  was  the  less  excuse  for 
the  Vicomtesse,  because  M.  de  Beauseant  is  a  well-bred  man 
of  the  world,  who  would  have  been  quite  ready  to  listen  to 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  205 

reason.  But  his  wife  is  quite  mad —  "  and  so  forth  and  so 
forth. 

M.  de  Nueil,  still  listening  to  the  speaker's  voice,  gathered 
nothing  of  the  sense  of  the  words;  his  brain  was  too  full  of 
thick-coming  fancies.  Fancies?  What  other  name  can  you 
give  to  the  alluring  charms  of  an  adventure  that  tempts  the 
imagination  and  sets  vague  hopes  springing  up  in  the  soul; 
to  the  sense  of  coming  events  and  mysterious  felicity  and  fear 
at  hand,  while  as  yet  there  is  no  substance  of  fact  on  which 
these  phantoms  of  caprice  can  fix  and  feed  ?  Over  these  fan- 
cies thought  hovers,  conceiving  impossible  projects,  giving  in 
the  germ  all  the  joys  of  love.  Perhaps,  indeed,  all  passion 
is  contained  in  that  thought-germ,  as  the  beauty,  and  fra- 
grance, and  rich  color  of  the  flower  is  all  packed  in  the  seed. 

M.  de  Nueil  did  not  know  that  Mme.  de  Beauseant  had 
taken  refuge  in  Normandy,  after  a  notoriety  which  women 
for  the  most  part  envy  and  condemn,  especially  when  youth 
and  beauty  in  some  sort  excuse  the  transgression.  Any  sort 
of  celebrity  bestows  an  inconceivable  prestige.  Apparently 
for  women,  as  for  families,  the  glory  of  the  crime  effaces 
the  stain;  and  if  such  and  such  a  noble  house  is  proud  of  it? 
tale  of  heads  that  have  fallen  on  the  scaffold,  a  young  and 
pretty  woman  becomes  more  interesting  for  the  dubious  re- 
nown of  a  happy  love  or  a  scandalous  desertion,  and  the  more 
she  is  to  be  pitied,  the  more  she  excites  our  sympathies.  We 
are  only  pitiless  to  the  commonplace.  If,  moreover,  we  attract 
all  eyes,  we  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes  great;  how,  in- 
deed, are  we  to  be  seen  unless  we  raise  ourselves  above  other 
people's  heads?  The  common  herd  of  humanity  feels  an  in- 
voluntary respect  for  any  person  who  can  rise  above  it,  and 
is  not  over-particular  as  to  the  means  by  which  they  rise. 

It  may  have  been  that  some  such  motives  influenced  Gaston 
de  Nueil  at  unawares,  or  perhaps  it  was  curiosity,  or  a  craving 
for  some  interest  in  his  life ;  or,  in  a  word,  that  crowd  of  in- 
explicable impulses  which,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  are 
wont  to  call  "fatality,"  that  drew  him  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant. 

The  figure  of  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant  rose  up  sud- 


206  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

denly  before  him  with  gracious  thronging  associations.  She 
was  a  new  world  for  him,  a  world  of  fears  and  hopes,  a  world 
to  fight  for  and  to  conquer.  Inevitably  he  felt  the  contrast 
between  this  vision  and  the  human  beings  in  the  shabby  room ; 
and  then,  in  truth,  she  was  a  woman;  what  woman  had  he 
seen  so  far  in  this  dull,  little  world,  where  calculation  re- 
placed thought  and  feeling,  where  courtesy  was  a  cut-and- 
dried  formality,  and  ideas  of  the  very  simplest  were  too  alarm- 
ing to  be  received  or  to  pass  current?  The  sound  of  Mme. 
de  Beauseant's  name  revived  a  young  man's  dreams  and 
wakened  urgent  desires  that  had  lain  dormant  for  a  little. 

Gaston  de  Nueil  was  absent-minded  and  preoccupied  for  the 
rest  of  that  evening.  He  was  pondering  how  he  might  gain  ac- 
cess to  Mme.  de  Beauseant,  and  truly  it  was  no  very  easy  mat- 
ter. She  was  believed  to  be  extremely  clever.  But  if  men  and 
women  of  parts  may  be  captivated  by  something  subtle  or  ec- 
centric, they  are  also  exacting,  and  can  read  all  that  lies 
below  the  surface;  and  after  the  first  step  has  been  taken, 
the  chances  of  failure  and  success  in  the  difficult  task  of 
pleasing  them  are  about  even.  In  this  particular  case,  more- 
over, the  Vicomtesse,  besides  the  pride  of  her  position,  had 
all  the  dignity  of  her  name.  Her  utter  seclusion  was  the  least 
of  the  barriers  raised  between  her  and  the  world.  For  which 
reasons  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  that  a  stranger,  however 
well  born,  could  hope  for  admittance ;  and  yet,  the  next  morn- 
ing found  M.  de  Nueil  taking  his  walks  abroad  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Courcelles,  a  dupe  of  illusions  natural  at  his  age. 
Several  times  he  made  the  circuit  of  the  garden  walls,  look- 
ing earnestly  through  every  gap  at  the  closed  shutters  or  open 
windows,  hoping  for  some  romantic  chance,  on  which  he 
founded  schemes  for  introducing  himself  into  this  unknown 
lady's  presence,  without  a  thought  of  their  impractica- 
bility. Morning  after  morning  was  spent  in  this  way  to 
mighty  little  purpose;  but  with  each  day's  walk,  that  vision 
of  a  woman  living  apart  from  the  world,  of  love's  martyr 
buried  in  solitude,  loomed  larger  in  his  thoughts,  and  was 
enshrined  in  his  soul.  So  Gaston  de  Nueil  walked  under  the 


THE   DESERTED   WOMAN  207 

walls  of  Courcelles,  and  some  gardener's  heavy  footstep  would 
set  his  heart  beating  high  with  hope. 

He  thought  of  writing  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant,  but  on  ma- 
ture consideration,  what  can  you  say  to  a  woman  whom  you 
have  never  seen,  a  complete  stranger?  And  Gaston  had  little 
self-confidence.  Like  most  young  persons  with  a  plentiful 
crop  of  illusions  still  standing,  he  dreaded  the  mortifying 
contempt  of  silence  more  than  death  itself,  and  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  sending  his  first  tender  epistle  forth  to  face 
so  many  chances  of  being  thrown  on  the  fire.  He  was  dis- 
tracted by  innumerable  conflicting  ideas.  But  by  dint  of  in- 
venting chimeras,  weaving  romances,  and  cudgeling  his 
brains,  he  hit  at  last  upon  one  of  the  hopeful  stratagems 
that  are  sure  to  occur  to  your  mind  if  you  persevere  long 
enough,  a  stratagem  which  must  make  clear  to  the  most  in- 
experienced woman  that  here  was  a  man  who  took  a  fervent 
interest  in  her.  The  caprice  of  social  conventions  puts  as 
many  barriers  between  lovers  as  any  Oriental  imagination 
can  devise  in  the  most  delightfully  fantastic  tale ;  indeed,  the 
most  extravagant  pictures  are  seldom  exaggerations.  In  real 
life,  as  in  the  fairy  tales,  the  woman  belongs  to  him  who  can 
reach  her  and  set  her  free  from  the  position  in  which  she 
languishes.  The  poorest  of  calenders  that  ever  fell  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  the  Khalif  is  in  truth  scarcely  further 
from  his  lady  than  Gaston  de  Nueil  from  Mme.  de  Beauseant. 
The  Vicomtesse  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  M.  de  Nueil's 
wanderings  round  her  house;  Gaston  de  Nueil's  love  grew  to 
the  height  of  the  obstacles  to  overleap;  and  the  distance  set 
between  him  and  his  extemporized  lady-love  produced  the 
usual  effect  of  distance,  in  lending  enchantment. 

One  day,  confident  in  his  inspiration,  he  hoped  everything 
from  the  love  that  must  pour  forth  from  his  eyes.  Spoken 
words,  in  his  opinion,  were  more  eloquent  than  the  most  pas- 
sionate letter;  and,  besides,  he  would  engage  feminine  cu- 
riosity to  plead  for  him.  He  went,  therefore,  to  aM.  de 
Champignelles,  proposing  to  employ  that  gentleman  for  the 
better  success  of  his  enterprise.  He  informed  the  Marquis 


208  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

that  he  had  been  entrusted  with  a  delicate  and  important 
commission  which  concerned  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant, 
that  he  felt  doubtful  whether  she  would  read  a  letter  written 
in  an  unknown  handwriting,  or  put  confidence  in  a  stranger. 
Would  M.  de  Champignelles,  on  his  next  visit,  ask  the  Vi- 
comtesse if  she  would  consent  to  receive  him — Gaston  de 
Nueil?  While  he  asked  the  Marquis  to  keep  his  secret  in 
case  of  a  refusal,  he  very  ingeniously  insinuated  sufficient 
reasons  for  his  own  admittance,  to  be  duly  passed  on  to  the 
Vicomtesse.  Was  not  M.  de  Champignelles  a  man  of  honor, 
a  loyal  gentleman  incapable  of  lending  himself  to  any  trans- 
action in  bad  taste,  nay,  the  merest  suspicion  of  bad  taste! 
Love  lends  a  young  man  all  the  self-possession  and  astute 
craft  of  an  old  ambassador;  all  the  Marquis'  harmless  vani- 
ties were  gratified,  and  the  haughty  grandee  was  completely 
duped.  He  tried  hard  to  fathom  Gaston's  secret;  but  the 
latter,  who  would  have  been  greatly  perplexed  to  tell  it, 
turned  off  M.  de  Champignelles'  adroit  questioning  with  a 
Norman's  shrewdness,  till  the  Marquis,  as  a  gallant  French- 
man, complimented  his  young  visitor  upon  his  discretion. 

M.  de  Champignelles  hurried  off  at  once  to  Courcelles,  with 
that  eagerness  to  serve  a  pretty  woman  which  belongs  to  his 
time  of  life.  In  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant's  position,  such 
a  message  was  likely  to  arouse  keen  curiosity;  so,  although 
her  memory  supplied  no  reason  at  all  that  could  bring  M. 
de  Nueil  to  her  house,  she  saw  no  objection  to  his  visit — 
after  some  prudent  inquiries  as  to  his  family  and  condition. 
At  the  same  time,  she  began  by  a  refusal.  Then  she  dis- 
cussed the  propriety  of  the  matter  with  M.  de  Champignelles, 
directing  her  questions  so  as  to  discover,  if  possible,  whether 
he  knew  the  motives  for  the  visit,  and  finally  revoked  her 
negative  answer.  The  discussion  and  the  discretion  shown 
perforce  by  the  Marquis  had  piqued  her  curiosity. 

M.  de  Champignelles  had  no  mind  to  cut  a  ridiculous  figure. 
He  said,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  can  keep  another's  coun- 
sel, that  the  Vicomtesse  must  know  the  purpose  of  this  visit 
perfectly  well;  while  the  Vicomtesse,  in  all  sincerity,  had  no 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  209 

notion  what  it  could  be.  Mme.  de  Beauseant,  in  perplexity, 
connected  Gaston  with  people  whom  he  had  never  met,  went 
astray  after  various  wild  conjectures,  and  asked  herself  if 
she  had  seen  this  M.  de  Nueil  before.  In  truth,  no  love-letter, 
however  sincere  or  skilfully  indited,  could  have  produced  so 
much  effect  as  this  riddle.  Again  and  again  Mme.  de  Beau- 
seant puzzled  over  it. 

When  Gaston  heard  that  he  might  call  upon  the  Vi- 
comtesse,  his  rapture  at  so  soon  obtaining  the  ardently 
longed-for  good  fortune  was  mingled  with  singular  embar- 
rassment. How  was  he  to  contrive  a  suitable  sequel  to  this 
stratagem  ? 

"Bah !  I  shall  see  her,"  he  said  over  and  over  again  to  him- 
self as  he  dressed.  "See  her,  and  that  is  everything !" 

He  fell  to  hoping  that  once  across  the  threshold  of  Cour- 
celles  he  should  find  an  expedient  for  unfastening  this  Gor- 
dian  knot  of  his  own  tying.  There  are  believers  in  the  om- 
nipotence of  necessity  who  never  turn  back ;  the  close  presence 
of  danger  is  an  inspiration  that  calls  out  all  their  powers  for 
victory.  Gaston  de  Nueil  was  one  of  these. 

He  took  particular  pains  with  his  dress,  imagining,  as 
youth  is  apt  to  imagine,  that  success  or  failure  hangs  on  the 
position  of  a  curl,  and  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  anything  is 
charming  in  youth.  And,  in  any  case,  such  women  as 
Mme.  de  Beauseant  are  only  attracted  by  the  charms  of  wit 
or  character  of  an  unusual  order.  Greatness  of  character 
flatters  their  vanity,  promises  a  great  passion,  seems  to  imply 
a  comprehension  of  the  requirements  of  their  hearts.  Wit 
amuses  them,  responds  to  the  subtlety  of  their  natures,  and 
they  think  that  they  are  understood.  And  what  do  all  women 
wisn  but  to  be  amused,  understood,  or  adored?  It  is  only 
after  much  reflection  on  the  things  of  life  that  we  under- 
stand the  consummate  coquetry  of  neglect  of  dress  and  re- 
serve at  a  first  interview;  and  by  the  time  we  have  gained 
sufficient  astuteness  for  successful  strategy,  we  are  too  old  to 
profit  by  our  experience 

While  Gaston's  lack  of  confidence  in  his  mental  equipment 
VOL.  5—38 


210  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

drove  him  to  borrow  charms  from  his  clothes,  Madame  de 
Beauseant  herself  was  instinctively  giving  more  attention  to 
her  toilette. 

"I  would  rather  not  frighten  people,  at  all  events,"  she  said 
to  herself  as  she  arranged  her  hair. 

In  M.  de  Nueil's  character,  person,  and  manner  there  was 
that  touch  of  unconscious  originality  which  gives  a  kind  of 
flavor  to  things  that  any  one  might  say  or  do,  and  absolves 
everything  that  they  may  choose  to  do  or  say.  He  was  highly 
cultivated,  he  had  a  keen  brain,  and  a  face,  mobile  as  his  own 
nature,  which  won  the  goodwill  of  others.  The  promise  of 
passion  and  tenderness  in  the  bright  eyes  was  fulfilled  by  an 
essentially  kindly  heart.  The  resolution  which  he  made  as 
he  entered  the  house  at  Courcelles  was  in  keeping  with  his 
frank  nature  and  ardent  imagination.  But,  bold  as  he  was 
with  love,  his  heart  beat  violently  when  he  had  crossed  the 
great  court,  laid  out  like  an  English  garden,  and  the  man- 
servant, who  had  taken  his  name  to  the  Vicomtesse,  returned 
to  say  that  she  would  receive  him. 

"M.  le  Baron  de  Nueil." 

Gaston  came  in  slowly,  but  with  sufficient  ease  of  manner ; 
and  it  is  a  more  difficult  thing,  be  it  said,  to  enter  a  room 
where  there  is  but  one  woman,  than  a  room  that  holds  a 
score. 

A  great  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth  in  spite  of  the  mild 
weather,  and  by  the  soft  light  of  the  candles  in  the  sconces 
he  saw  a  young  woman  sitting  on  a  high-backed  berg  ere  in 
the  angle  by  the  hearth.  The  seat  was  so  low  that  she  could 
move  her  head  freely ;  every  turn  of  it  was  full  of  grace  and 
delicate  charm,  whether  she  bent,  leaning  forward,  or  raised 
and  held  it  erect,  slowly  and  languidly,  as  though  it  were  a 
heavy  burden,  so  low  that  she  could  cross  her  feet  and  let 
them  appear,  or  draw  them  back  under  the  folds  of  a  long 
black  dress. 

The  Vicomtesse  made  as  if  she  would  lay  the  book  that 
she  was  reading  on  a  small,  round  stand;  but  as  she  did  so, 
ehe  turned  towards  M.  de  Nueil,  and  the  volume,  insecurely 


THE   DESERTED  WOMAN  211 

laid  upon  the  edge,  fell  to  the  ground  between  the  stand  and 
the  sofa.  This  did  not  seem  to  disconcert  her.  She  looked 
up,  bowing  almost  imperceptibly  in  response  to  his  greeting, 
without  rising  from  the  depths  of  the  low  chair  in  which  she 
lay.  Bending  forwards,  she  stirred  the  fire  briskly,  and 
stooped  to  pick  up  a  fallen  glove,  drawing  it  mechanically 
over  her  left  hand,  while  her  eyes  wandered  in  search  of  its 
fellow.  The  glance  was  instantly  checked,  however,  for  she 
stretched  out  a  thin,  white,  all-but-transparent  right  hand, 
with  flawless  ovals  of  rose-colored  nail  at  the  tips  of  the 
slender,  ringless  fingers,  and  pointed  to  a  chair  as  if  to  bid 
Gaston  be  seated.  He  sat  down,  and  she  turned  her  face 
questioningly  towards  him.  Words  cannot  describe  the 
subtlety  of  the  winning  charm  and  inquiry  in  that  gesture; 
deliberate  in  its  kindliness,  gracious  yet  accurate  in  expres- 
sion, it  was  the  outcome  of  early  education  and  of  a  constant 
use  and  wont  of  the  graciousness  of  life.  These  movements 
of  hers,  so  swift,  so  deft,  succeeded  each  other  so  smoothly, 
that  Gaston  de  Nueil  was  fascinated  by  the  blending  of  a 
pretty  woman's  fastidious  carelessness  with  the  high-bred 
manner  of  a  great  lady. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant  stood  out  in  such  strong  contrast 
against  the  automatons  among  whom  he  had  spent  two  months 
of  exile  in  that  out-of -the- world  district  of  Normandy,  that 
he  could  not  but  find  in  her  the  realization  of  his  romantic 
dreams;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  compare  her 
perfections  with  those  of  other  women  whom  he  had  for- 
merly admired.  Here  in  her  presence,  in  a  drawing-room 
like  some  salon  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  full  of  costly 
trifles  lying  about  upon  the  tables,  and  flowers  and  books,  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  back  in  Paris.  It  was  a  real  Parisian  carpet 
beneath  his  feet,  he  saw  once  more  the  high-bred  type  of 
Parisienne,  the  fragile  outlines  of  her  form,  her  exquisite 
charm,  her  disdain  of  the  studied  effects  which  did  so  much 
to  spoil  provincial  women. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant  had  fair  hair  and  dark  eyes,  and  the 
pale  complexion  that  belongs  to  fair  hair.  She  held  up  her 


212  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

brow  nobly  like  some  fallen  angel,  grown  proud  through  the 
fall,  disdainful  of  pardon.  Her  way  of  gathering  her  thick 
hair  into  a  crown  of  plaits  above  the  broad,  curving  lines  of 
the  bandeaux  upon  her  forehead,  added  to  the  queenliness 
of  her  face.  Imagination  could  discover  the  ducal  coronet 
of  Burgundy  in  the  spiral  threads  of  her  golden  hair;  all 
the  courage  of  her  house  seemed  to  gleam  from  the  great 
lady's  brilliant  eyes,  such  courage  as  women  use  to  repel  au- 
dacity or  scorn,  for  they  were  full  of  tenderness  for  gentle- 
ness. The  outline  of  that  little  head,  so  admirably  poised 
above  the  long,  white  throat,  the  delicate,  fine  features,  the 
subtle  curves  of  the  lips,  the  mobile  face  itself,  wore  an  ex- 
pression of  delicate  discretion,  a  faint  semblance  of  irony 
suggestive  of  craft  and  insolence.  Yet  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  refuse  forgiveness  to  those  two  feminine  failings 
in  her;  for  the  lines  that  came  out  in  her  forehead  whenever 
her  face  was  not  in  repose,  like  her  upward  glances  (that 
pathetic  trick  of  manner),  told  unmistakably  of  unhappiness, 
of  a  passion  that  had  all  but  cost  her  her  life.  A  woman, 
sitting  in  the  great,  silent  salon,  a  woman  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  in  this  remote  little  valley,  alone,  with  the 
memories  of  her  brilliant,  happy,  and  impassioned  youth, 
of  continual  gaiety  and  homage  paid  on  all  sides,  now  re- 
placed by  the  horrors  of  the  void — was  there  not  something  in 
the  sight  to  strike  awe  that  deepened  with  reflection?  Con- 
sciousness of  her  own  value  lurked  in  her  smile.  She  was 
neither  wife  nor  mother,  she  was  an  outlaw;  she  had  lost 
the  one  heart  that  could  set  her  pulses  beating  without  shame ; 
she  had  nothing  from  without  to  support  her  reeling  soul; 
she  must  even  look  for  strength  from  within,  live  her  own 
life,  cherish  no  hope  save  that  of  forsaken  love,  which  looks 
'forward  to  Death's  coming,  and  hastens  his  lagging  footsteps. 
And, this  while  life  was  in  its  prime.  Oh!  to  feel  destined 
for  happiness  and  to  die — never  having  given  nor  received 
it!  A  woman  too!  What  pain  was  this!  These  thoughts, 
flashing  across  M.  de  Nueil's  mind  like  lightning,  left  him 
very  humble  in  the  presence  of  the  greatest  charm  with  which 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  213 

woman  can  be  invested.  The  triple  aureole  of  beauty,  noble- 
ness, and  misfortune  dazzled  him;  he  stood  in  dreamy,  almost 
open-mouthed,  admiration  of  the  Vicomtesse.  But  he  found 
nothing  to  say  to  her. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant,  by  no  means  displeased,  no  doubt,  by 
his  surprise,  held  out  her  hand  with  a  kindly  but  imperious 
gesture;  then,  summoning  a  smile  to  her  pale  lips,  as  if 
obeying,  even  yet,  the  woman's  impulse  to  be  gracious : 

"I  have  heard  from  M.  de  Champignelles  of  a  message 
which  you  have  kindly  undertaken  to  deliver,  monsieur,"  she 
said.  "Can  it  be  from " 

With  that  terrible  phrase  Gaston  understood,  even  more 
clearly  than  before,  his  own  ridiculous  position,  the  bad  taste 
and  bad  faith  of  his  behavior  towards  a  woman  so  noble  and 
so  unfortunate.  He  reddened.  The  thoughts  that  crowded 
in  upon  him  could  be  read  in  his  troubled  eyes ;  but  suddenty, 
with  the  courage  which  youth  draws  from  a  sense  of  its  own 
wrongdoing,  he  gained  confidence,  and  very  humbly  inter- 
rupted Mme.  de  Beauseant. 

"Madame,"  he  faltered  out,  "I  do  not  deserve  the  happi- 
ness of  seeing  you.  I  have  deceived  you  basely.  However 
strong  the  motive  may  have  been,  it  can  never  excuse  the 
pitiful  subterfuge  which  I  used  to  gain  my  end.  But,  ma- 
dame,  if  your  goodness  will  permit  me  to  tell  you " 

The  Vicomtesse  glanced  at  M.  de  Nueil,  haughty  disdain 
in  her  whole  manner.  She  stretched  her  hand  to  the  bell  and 
rang  it. 

"Jacques,"  she  said,  "light  this  gentleman  to  the  door," 
and  she  looked  with  dignity  at  the  visitor. 

She  rose  proudly,  bowed  to  Gaston,  and  then  stooped  for 
the  fallen  volume.  If  all  her  movements  on  his  entrance  had 
been  caressingly  dainty  and  gracious,  her  every  gesture  now 
was  no  less  severely  frigid.  M.  de  Nueil  rose  to  his  feet,  but 
he  stood  waiting.  Mme.  de  Beauseant  flung  another  glance 
at  him.  "Well,  why  do  you  not  go  ?"  she  seemed  to  say. 

There  was  such  cutting  irony  in  that  glance  that  Gaston 
grew  white  as  if  he  were  about  to  faint.  Tears  came  into 


214  THE  DESEI  TED  WOMAN 

his  eyes,  but  he  would  not  let  them  fall,  and  scorching  shame 
and  despair  dried  them.  He  looked  back  at  Madame  de  Beau- 
seant,  and  a  certain  pride  and  consciousness  of  his  own  worth 
was  mingled  with  his  humility;  the  Vicomtesse  had  a  right 
to  punish  him,  but  ought  she  to  use  her  right?  Then  he 
went  out. 

As  he  crossed  the  ante-chamber,  a  clear  head,  and  wits 
sharpened  by  passion,  were  not  slow  to  grasp  the  danger  of 
his  situation. 

"If  I  leave  this  house,  I  can  never  come  back  to  it  again," 
he  said  to  himself.  "The  Vicomtesse  will  always  think  of  me 
as  a  fool.  It  is  impossible  that  a  woman,  and  such  a  woman, 
should  not  guess  the  love  that  she  has  called  forth.  Perhaps 
she  feels  a  little,  vague,  involuntary  regret  for  dismissing 
me  so  abruptly. — But  she  could  not  do  otherwise,  and  she 
cannot  recall  her  sentence.  It  rests  with  me  to  understand 
her." 

At  that  thought  Gaston  stopped  short  on  the  flight  of  steps 
with  an  exclamation ;  he  turned  sharply,  saying,  "I  have  for- 
gotten something,"  and  went  back  to  the  salon.  The  lackey, 
all  respect  for  a  baron  and  the  rights  of  property,  was  com- 
pletely deceived  by  the  natural  utterance,  and  followed  him. 
Gaston  returned  quietly  and  unannounced.  The  Vicomtesse, 
thinking  that  the  intruder  was  the  servant,  looked  up  and 
beheld  M.  de  Nueil. 

"Jacques  lighted  me  to  the  door,"  he  said,  with  a  half- 
sad  smile  which  dispelled  any  suspicion  of  jest  in  those  words, 
while  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken  went  to  the  heart. 
Mme.  de  Beauseant  was  disarmed. 

"Very  well,  take  a  seat,"  she  said. 

Gaston  eagerly  took  possession  of  a  chair.  His  eyes  were 
shining  with  happiness ;  the  Vicomtesse,  unable  to  endure  the 
brilliant  light  in  them,  looked  down  at  the  book.  She  was 
enjoying  a  delicious,  ever  new  sensation;  the  sense  of  a  man's 
delight  in  her  presence  is  an  unfailing  feminine  instinct. 
And  then,  besides,  he  had  divined  her,  and  a  woman  is  so 
grateful  to  the  man  who  has  mastered  the  apparently  ca- 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  215 

pricious,  yet  logical,  reasoning  of  her  heart;  who  can  track 
her  thought  through  the  seemingly  contradictory  workings 
of  her  mind,  and  read  the  sensations,  or  shy  or  bold.,  written 
in  fleeting  red,  a  bewildering  maze  of  coquetry  and  self-revela- 
tion. 

"Madame,"  Gaston  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  "my  blunder 
you  know,  but  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  am  to  blame. 
If  you  only  knew  what  joy  it  was  to " 

"Ah!  take  care,"  she  said,  holding  up  one  finger  with  an 
air  of  mystery,  as  she  put  out  her  hand  towards  the  bell. 

The  charming  gesture,  the  gracious  threat,  no  doubt  called 
up  some  sad  thought,  some  memory  of  the  old  happy  time 
when  she  could  be  wholly  charming  and  gentle  without  an 
afterthought;  when  the  gladness  of  her  heart  justified  every 
caprice,  and  put  charm  into  every  least  movement.  The  lines 
in  her  forehead  gathered  between  her  brows,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  grew  dark  in  the  soft  candle-light.  Then 
looking  across  at  M.  de  Nueil  gravely  but  not  unkindly,  she 
spoke  like  a  woman  who  deeply  feels  the  meaning  of  every 
word. 

"This  is  all  very  ridiculous !  Once  upon  a  time,  monsieur, 
when  thoughtless  high  spirits  were  my  privilege,  I  should  have 
laughed  fearlessly  over  your  visit  with  you.  But  now  my  life 
is  very  much  changed.  I  cannot  do  as  I  like,  I  am  obliged  to 
think.  What  brings  j'ou  here  ?  Is  it  curiosity  ?  In  that  case 
I  am  paying  dearly  for  a  little  fleeting  pleasure.  Have  you 
fallen  passionately  in  love  already  with  a  woman  whom  you 
have  never  seen,  a  woman  with  whose  name  slander  has,  of 
course,  been  busy?  If  so,  your  motive  in  making  this  visit 
is  based  on  disrespect,  on  an  error  which  accident  brought 
into  notoriety." 

She  flung  her  book  down  scornfully  upon  the  table,  then, 
with  a  terrible  look  at  Gaston,  she  went  on:  "Because  I  once 
was  weak,  must  it  be  supposed  that  I  am  always  weak?  This 
is  horrible,  degrading.  Or  have  you  come  here  to  pity  me? 
You  are  very  young  to  offer  sympathy  with  heart  troubles. 
Understand  this  clearly,  sir,  that  I  would  rather  have  scorn 
than  pity.  I  will  not  endure  compassion  from  any  one." 


216  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  continued  (and  the  face  that  she  turned 
to  him  was  gentle  and  sad),  "whatever  motive  induced  this 
rash  intrusion  upon  my  solitude,  it  is  very  painful  to  me,  you 
see.  You  are  too  young  to  be  totally  without  good  feeling, 
so  surely  you  will  feel  that  this  behavior  of  yours  is  improper. 
I  forgive  you  for  it,  and,  as  you  see,  I  am  speaking  of  it  to 
you  without  bitterness.  You  will  not  come  here  again,  will 
you?  I  am'  entreating  when  I  might  command.  If  you 
come  to  see  me  again,  neither  you  nor  I  can  prevent  the  whole 
place  from  believing  that  you  are  my  lover,  and  you  would 
cause  me  great  additional  annoyance.  You  do  not  mean  to 
do  that,  I  think." 

She  said  no  more,  but  looked  at  him  with  a  great  dignity 
which  abashed  him. 

"I  have  done  wrong,  madame,"  he  said,  with  deep  feeling 
in  his  voice,  "but  it  was  through  enthusiasm  and  thoughtless- 
ness and  eager  desire  of  happiness,  the  qualities  and  defects 
of  my  age.  Now,  I  understand  that  I  ought  not  to  have  tried 
to- see  you,"  he  added;  "but,  at  the  same  time,  the  desire  was 
a  very  natural  one" — and  making  an  appeal  to  feeling  rather 
than  to  the  intellect,  he  described  the  weariness  of  his  en- 
forced exile.  He  drew  a  portrait  of  a  young  man  in  whom 
the  fires  of  life  were  burning  themselves  out,  conveying  the 
impression  that  here  was  a  heart  worthy  of  tender  love,  a  heart 
which,  notwithstanding,  had  never  known  the  joys  of  love 
for  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  of  refinement  and  taste. 
He  explained,  without  attempting  to  justify,  his  unusual  con- 
duct. He  flattered  Mme.  de  Beauseant  by  showing  that  she 
had  realized  for  him  the  ideal  lady  of  a  young  man's  dream, 
the  ideal  sought  by  so  many,  and  so  often  sought  in  vain. 
Then  he  touched  upon  his  morning  prowlings  under  the  walls 
of  Courcelles,  and  his  wild  thoughts  at  the  first  sight  of  the 
house,  till  he  excited  that  vague  feeling  of  indulgence  which 
a  woman  can  find  in  her  heart  for  the  follies  committed  for 
her  sake. 

An  impassioned  voice  was  speaking  in  the  chill  solitude; 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  217 

the  speaker  brought  with  him  a  warm  breath  of  youth  and 
the  charms  of  a  carefully  cultivated  mind.  It  was  so  long 
since  Mme.  de  Beauseant  had  felt  stirred  by  real  feeling  deli- 
cately expressed,  that  it  affected  her  very  strongly  now.  In 
spite  of  herself,  she  watched  M.  de  Xueil's  expressive  face, 
and  admired  the  noble  countenance  of  a  soul,  unbroken  as 
yet  by  the  cruel  discipline  of  the  life  of  the  world,  unfretted 
by  continual  scheming  to  gratify  personal  ambition  and 
vanity.  Gaston  was  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  he  impressed 
her  as  a  man  with  something  in  him,  unaware  as  yet  of  the 
great  career  that  lay  before  him.  So  both  these  two  made 
reflections  most  dangerous  for  their  peace  of  mind,  and  both 
strove  to  conceal  their  thoughts.  M.  de  jSTueil  saw  in  the 
Vicomtesse  a  rare  type  of  woman,  always  the  victim  of  her 
perfection  and  tenderness;  her  graceful  beauty  is  the  least 
of  her  charms  for  those  who  are  privileged  to  know  the  in- 
finite of  feeling  and  thought  and  goodness  in  the  soul  within ; 
a  woman  whose  instinctive  feeling  for  beauty  runs  through 
all  the  most  varied  expressions  of  love,  purifying  its  trans- 
ports, turning  them  to  something  almost  holy;  wonderful 
secret  of  womanhood,  the  exquisite  gift  that  Nature  so  seldom 
bestows.  And  the  Vicomtesse,  on  her  side,  listening  to  the 
ring  of  sincerity  in  Gaston's  voice,  while  he  told  of  his  youth- 
ful troubles,  began  to  understand  all  that  grown  children 
of  five-and-twenty  suffer  from  diffidence,  when  hard  work 
has  kept  them  alike  from  corrupting  influences  and  inter- 
course with  men  and  women  of  the  world  whose  sophistical 
reasoning  and  experience  destroys  the  fair  qualities  of  youth. 
Here  was  the  ideal  of  women's  dreams,  a  man  unspoiled  as 
yet  by  the  egoism  of  family  or  success,  or  by  that  narrow 
selfishness  which  blights  the  first  impulses  of  honor,  devo- 
tion, self-sacrifice,  and  high  demands  of  self;  all  the  flowers 
so  soon  wither  that  enrich  at  first  the  life  of  delicate  but 
strong  emotions,  and  keep  alive  the  loyalty  of  the  heart. 

But  these  two,  once  launched  forth  into  the  vast  of  senti- 
ment, went  far  indeed  in  theory,  sounding  the  depths  in  either 
soul,  testing  the  sincerity  of  their  expressions;  only,  whereas 


218  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

Gaston's  experiments  were  made  unconsciously,  Mme.  de 
Beauseant  had  a  purpose  in  all  that  she  said.  Bringing  her 
natural  and  acquired  subtlety  to  the  work,  she  sought  to  learn 
M.  de  Nueil's  opinions  by  advancing,  as  far  as  she  could  do 
so,  views  diametrically  opposed  to  her  own.  So  witty  and  so 
gracious  was  she,  so  much  herself  with  this  stranger,  with 
whom  she  felt  completely  at  ease,  because  she  felt  sure  that 
they  should  never  meet  again,  that,  after  some  delicious  epi- 
gram of  hers,  Gaston  exclaimed  unthinkingly : 

"Oh !  madame,  how  could  any  man  have  left  you  ?" 

The  Vicomtesse  was  silent.  Gaston  reddened,  he  thought 
that  he  had  offended  her;  but  she  was  not  angry.  The  first 
deep  thrill  of  delight  since  the  day  of  her  calamity  had  taken 
her  by  surprise.  The  skill  of  the  cleverest  roue  could  not  have 
made  the  impression  that  M.  de  Nueil  made  with  that  cry 
from  the  heart.  That  verdict  wrung  from  a  young  man's 
candor  gave  her  back  innocence  in  her  own  eyes,  condemned 
the  world,  laid  the  blame  upon  the  lover  who  had  left  her, 
and  justified  her  subsequent  solitary  drooping  life.  The 
world's  absolution,  the  heartfelt  sympathy,  the  social  esteem 
so  longed  for,  and  so  harshly  refused,  nay,  all  her  secret  de- 
sires were  given  her  to  the  full  in  that  exclamation,  made 
fairer  yet  by  the  heart's  sweetest  flatteries  and  the  admira- 
tion that  women  alway  relish  eagerly.  He  understood  her, 
understood  all,  and  he  had  given  her,  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world,  the  opportunity  of  rising  higher 
through  her  fall.  She  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Ah !  madame,  do  not  punish  me  for  my  heedlessness.  If 
you  grant  me  but  one  evening,  vouchsafe  not  to  shorten  it." 

She  smiled  at  the  pretty  speech. 

"Well,  as  we  must  never  meet  again,"  she  said,  "what  sig- 
nifies a  moment  more  or  less?  If  you  were  to  care  for  me, 
it  would  be  a  pity." 

"It  is  too  late  now,"  he  said. 

"Do  not  tell  me  that,"  she  answered  gravely.  "Under  any 
other  circumstances  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  you.  I  will 
speak  frankly,  and  you  will  understand  how  it  is  that  I  do 


THE  DESERTED   WOMAN  219 

toot  choose  to  see  you  again,  and  ought  not  to  do  so.  You 
have  too  much  magnanimity  not  to  feel  that  if  I  were  so 
much  as  suspected  of  a  second  trespass,  every  one  would  think 
of  me  as  a  contemptible  and  vulgar  woman;  I  should  be  like 
other  women.  A  pure  and  blameless  life  will  bring  my  char- 
acter into  relief.  I  am  too  proud  not  to  endeavor  to  live  like 
one  apart  in  the  world,  a  victim  of  the  law  through  my  mar- 
riage, man's  victim  through  my  love.  If  I  were  not  faithful 
to  the  position  which  I  have  taken  up,  then  I  should  deserve 
all  the  reproach  that  is  heaped  upon  me ;  I  should  be  lowered 
in  my  own  eyes.  I  had  not  enough  lofty  social  virtue  to  re- 
main with  a  man  whom  I  did  not  love.  I  have  snapped  the 
bonds  of  marriage  in  spite  of  the  law;  it  was  wrong,  it  was  a 
crime,  it  was  anything  you  like,  but  for  me  the  bonds  meant 
death.  I  meant  to  live.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  a  mother  I 
could  have  endured  the  torture  of  a  forced  marriage  of  suit- 
ability. At  eighteen  we  scarcely  know  what  is  done  with  us, 
poor  girls  that  we  are !  I  have  broken  the  laws  of  the  world, 
and  the  world  has  punished  me ;  we  both  did  rightly.  I  sought 
happiness.  Is  it  not  a  law  of  our  nature  to  seek  for  hap- 
piness? I  was  young,  I  was  beautiful  ...  I  thought 
that  I  had  found  a  nature  as  loving,  as  apparently  passion- 
ate. I  was  loved  indeed;  for  a  little  while  .  .  ." 

She  paused. 

"I  used  to  think,"  she  said,  "that  no  one  could  leave  a  wo- 
man in  such  a  position  as  mine.  I  have  been  forsaken;  I 
must  have  offended  in  some  way.  Yes,  in  some  way,  no  doubt, 
I  failed  to  keep  some  law  of  our  nature,  was  too  loving,  too 
devoted,  too  exacting — I  do  not  know.  Evil  days  have 
brought  light  with  them !  For  a  long  while  I  blamed  an- 
other, now  I  am  content  to  bear  the  whole  blame.  At  my  own 
expense,  I  have  absolved  that  other  of  whom  I  once  thought 
I  had  a  right  to  complain.  I  had  not  the  art  to  keep  him; 
fate  has  punished  me  heavily  for  my  lack  of  skill.  I  only 
knew  how  to  love;  how  can  one  keep  oneself  in  mind  when 
one  loves?  So  I  was  a  slave  when  I  should  have  sought  to 
be  a  tyrant.  Those  who  know  me  may  condemn  me,  but  they 


220  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

will  respect  me  too.  Pain  has  taught  me  that  I  must  not 
lay  myself  open  to  this  a  second  time.  I  cannot  understand 
how  it  is  that  I  am  living  yet,  after  the  anguish  of  that  first 
week  of  the  most  fearful  crisis  in  a  woman's  life.  Only  from 
three  years  of  loneliness  would  it  be  possible  to  draw  strength 
to  speak  of  that  time  as  I  am  speaking  now.  Such  agony, 
monsieur,  usually  ends  in  death;  but  this — well,  it  was  the 
agony  of  death  with  no  tomb  to  end  it.  Oh !  I  have  known 
pain  indeed !" 

The  Vieomtesse  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the  ceiling; 
and  the  cornice,  no  doubt,  received  all  the  confidences  which 
a  stranger  might  not  hear.  When  a  woman  is  afraid  to  look 
at  her  interlocutor,  there  is  in  truth  no  gentler,  meeker,  more 
accommodating  confidante  than  the  cornice.  The  cornice  is 
quite  an  institution  in  the  boudoir;  what  is  it  but  the  con- 
fessional, minus  the  priest? 

Mme.  de  Beauseant  was  eloquent  and  beautiful  at  that 
moment;  nay,  "coquettish,"  if  the  word  were  not  too  heavy. 
By  justifying  herself,  by  raising  insurmountable  barriers  be- 
tween herself  and  love,  she  was  stimulating  every  sentiment 
in  the  man  before  her ;  nay,  more,  the  higher  she  set  the  goal, 
the  more  conspicuous  it  grew.  At  last,  when  her  eyes  had 
lost  the  too  eloquent  expression  given  to  them  by  painful 
memories,  she  let  them  fall  on  Gaston. 

"You  acknowledge,  do  you  not,  that  I  am  bound  to  lead 
a  solitary,  self-contained  life?"  she  said  quietly. 

So  sublime  was  she  in  her  reasoning  and  her  madness,  that 
M.  de  Nueil  felt  a  wild  longing  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet ; 
but  he  was  afraid  of  making  himself  ridiculous,  so  he  held 
his  enthusiasm  and  his  thoughts  in  check.  He  was  afraid, 
too,  that  he  might  totally  fail  to  express  them,  and  in  no 
less  terror  of  some  awful  rejection  on  her  part,  or  of  her 
mockery,  an  apprehension  which  strikes  like  ice  to  the  most 
fervid  soul.  The  revulsion  which  led  him  to  crush  down 
every  feeling  as  it  sprang  up  in  his  heart  cost  him  the  intense 
pain  that  diffident  and  ambitious  natures  experience  in  the 
frequent  crises  when  they  are  compelled  to  stifle  their  long- 


THE   DESERTED   WOMAN  221 

ings.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  broke  the  silence  to  say 
in  a  faltering  voice : 

"Madame,  permit  me  to  give  way  to  one  of  the  strongest 
emotions  of  my  life,  and  own  to  all  that  you  have  made  me 
feel.  You  set  the  heart  in  me  swelling  high !  I  feel  within 
me  a  longing  to  make  you  forget  your  mortifications,  to  de- 
vote my  life  to  this,  to  give  you  love  for  all  who  ever  have 
given  you  wounds  or  hate.  But  this  is  a  very  sudden  out- 
pouring of  the  heart,  nothing  can  justify  it  to-day,  and  I 
ought  not " 

"Enough,  monsieur,"  said  Mme.  de  Beauseant;  "we  have 
both  of  us  gone  too  far.  By  giving  you  the  sad  reasons  for  a 
refusal  which  I  am  compelled  to  give,  I  meant  to  soften  it 
and  not  to  elicit  homage.  Coquetry  only  suits  a  happy  wo- 
man. Believe  me,  we  must  remain  strangers  to  each  other. 
At  a  later  day  you  will  know  that  ties  which  must  inevitably 
be  broken  ought  not  to  be  formed  at  all." 

She  sighed  lightly,  and  her  brows  contracted,  but  almost 
immediately  grew  clear  again. 

"How  painful  it  is  for  a  woman  to  be  powerless  to  follow 
the  man  she  loves  through  all  the  phases  of  his  life !  And  if 
that  man  loves  her  truly,  his  heart  must  surely  vibrate  with 
pain  to  the  deep  trouble  in  hers.  Are  they  not  twice  un- 
happy?" 

There  was  a  short  pause.    Then  she  rose  smiling. 

"You  little  suspected,  when  you  came  to  Courcelles,  that 
you  were  to  hear  a  sermon,  did  you?" 

Gaston  felt  even  further  than  at  first  from  this  extraordi- 
nary woman.  Was  the  charm  of  that  delightful  hour  due 
after  all  to  the  coquetry  of  the  mistress  of  the  house?  She 
had  been  anxious  to  display  her  wit.  He  bowed  stiffly  to  the 
Vicomtesse,  and  went  away  in  desperation. 

On  the  way  home  he  tried  to  de'tect  the  real  character  of  a 
creature  supple  and  hard  as  a  steel  spring;  but  he  had  seen 
her  pass  through  so  many  phases,  that  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  about  her.  The  tones  of  her  voice,  too,  were  ring- 
ing in  his  ears;  her  gestures,  the  little  movements  of  her 


222  THE   DESERTED   WOMAN 

head,  and  the  varying  expression  of  her  eyes  grew  more  gra- 
cious in  memory,  more  fascinating  as  he  thought  of  them. 
The  Vicomtesse's  beauty  shone  out  again  for  him  in  the 
darkness;  his  reviving  impressions  called  up  yet  others,  and 
he  was  enthralled  anew  by  womanly  charm  and  wit,  which 
at  first  he  had  not  perceived.  He  fell  to  wandering  musings, 
in  which  the  most  lucid  thoughts  grow  refractory  and  flatly 
contradict  each  other,  and  the  soul  passes  through  a  brief 
frenzy  fit.  Youth  only  can  understand  all  that  lies  in  the 
dithyrambic  outpourings  of  youth  when,  after  a  stormy  siege, 
of  the  most  frantic  folly  and  coolest  common-sense,  the  heart 
finally  yields  to  the  assault  of  the  latest  comer,  be  it  hope,  or 
despair,  as  some  mysterious  power  determines. 

At  three-and-twenty,  diffidence  nearly  always  rules  a  man's 
conduct ;  he  is  perplexed  with  a  young  girl's  shyness,  a  girl's 
trouble;  he  is  afraid  lest  he  should  express  his  love  ill,  sees 
nothing  but  difficulties,  and  takes  alarm  at  them;  he  would 
be  bolder  if  he  loved  less,  for  he  has  no  confidence  in  himself, 
and  with  a  growing  sense  of  the  cost  of  happiness  comes  a 
conviction  that  the  woman  he  loves  cannot  easily  be  won ;  per- 
haps, too,  he  is  giving  himself  up  too  entirely  to  his  own 
pleasure,  and  fears  that  he  can  give  none;  and  when,  for  his 
misfortune,  his  idol  inspires  him  with  awe,  he  worships  in 
secret  and  afar,  and  unless  his  love  is  guessed,  it  dies  away. 
Then  it  often  happens  that  one  of  these  dead  early  loves  lin- 
gers on,  bright  with  illusions  in  many  a  young  heart.  What 
man  is  there  but  keeps  within  him  these  virgin  memories  that 
grow  fairer  every  time  they  rise  before  him,  memories  that 
hold  up  to  him  the  ideal  of  perfect  bliss  ?  Such  recollections 
are  like  children  who  die  in  the  flower  of  childhood,  before 
their  parents  have  known  anything  of  them  but  their  smiles. 

So  M.  de  Nueil  came  home  from  Courcelles,  the  victim  of  a 
mood  fraught  with  desperate  resolutions.  Even  now  he  felt 
that  Mme.  de  Beauseant  was  one  of  the  conditions  of  his  ex- 
istence, and  that  death  would  be  preferable  to  life  without 
her.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  feel  the  tyrannous  fasci- 
nation which  fully-developed  womanhood  exerts  over  imma- 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  223 

ture  and  impassioned  natures;  and,  consequently,  he  was  to 
spend  one  of  those  stormy  nights  when  a  young  man's 
thoughts  travel  from  happiness  to  suicide  and  back  again — 
nights  in  which  youth  rushes  through  a  lifetime  of  bliss  and 
falls  asleep  from  sheer  exhaustion.  Fateful  nights  are  they, 
and  the  worst  misfortune  that  can  happen  is  to  awake  a  phil- 
osopher afterwards.  M.  de  Nueil  was  far  too  deeply  in  love 
to  sleep;  he  rose  and  betook  to  inditing  letters,  but  none  of 
them  were  satisfactory,  and  he  burned  them  all. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  Courcelles  to  make  the  circuit  of 
her  garden  walls,  but  he  waited  till  nightfall ;  he  was  afraid 
that  she  might  see  him.  The  instinct  that  led  him  to  act 
in  this  way  arose  out  of  so  obscure  a  mood  of  the  soul,  that 
none  but  a  young  man,  or  a  man  in  like  case,  can  fully  under- 
stand its  mute  ecstasies  and  its  vagaries,  matter  to  set  those 
people  who  are  lucky  enough  to  see  life  only  in  its  matter-of- 
fact  aspect  shrugging  their  shoulders.  After  painful  hesita- 
tion, Gaston  wrote  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant.  Here  is  the  let- 
ter, which  may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  epistolary  style  pe- 
culiar to  lovers,  a  performance  which,  like  the  drawings  pre- 
pared with  great  secrecy  by  children  for  the  birthdays  of 
father  or  mother,  is  found  insufferable  by  every  mortal  ex- 
cept the  recipients: — 

''MADAME, — Your  power  over  my  heart,  my  soul,  myself, 
is  so  great  that  my  fate  depends  wholly  upon  you  to-day.  Do 
not  throw  this  letter  into  the  fire;  be  so  kind  as  to  read  it 
through.  Perhaps  you  may  pardon  the  opening  sentence 
when  you  see  that  it  is  no  commonplace,  selfish  declaration, 
but  that  it  expresses  a  simple  fact.  Perhaps  you  may  feel 
moved,  because  I  ask  for  so  little,  by  the  submission  of  one 
who  feels  himself  so  much  beneath  you,  by  the  influence  that 
your  decision  will  exercise  upon  my  life.  At  my  age,  ma- 
dame,  I  only  know  how  to  love,  I  am  utterly  ignorant  of  ways 
of  attracting  and  winning  a  woman's  love,  but  in  my  own 
heart  I  know  raptures  of  adoration  of  her.  I  am  irresistibly 
drawn  to  you  by  the  great  happiness  that  I  feel  through  you; 


224  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

my  thoughts  turn  to  you  with  the  selfish  instinct  which  bids 
us  draw  nearer  to  the  fire  of  life  when  we  find  it.  I  do  not 
imagine  that  I  am  worthy  of  you;  it  seems  impossible  that 
I,  young,  ignorant,  and  shy,  could  bring  you  one-thousandth 
part  of  the  happiness  that  I  drink  in  at  the  sound  of  your 
voice  and  the  sight  of  you.  For  me  you  are  the  only  woman 
in  the  world.  I  cannot  imagine  life  without  you,  so  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  leave  France,  and  to  risk  my  life  till  I 
lose  it  in  some  desperate  enterprise,  in  the  Indies,  in  Africa, 
I  care  not  where.  How  can  I  quell  a  love  that  knows  no 
limits  save  by  opposing  to  it  something  as  infinite  ?  Yet,  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  hope,  not  to  be  yours,  but  to  win  your 
friendship,  I  will  stay.  Let  me  come,  not  so  very  often, 
if  you  require  it,  to  spend  a  few  such  hours  with  you  as  those 
stolen  hours  of  yesterday.  The  keen  delight  of  that  brief  hap- 
piness, to  be  cut  short  at  the  least  over-ardent  word  from  me, 
will  suffice  to  enable  me  to  endure  the  boiling  torrent  in  my 
veins.  Have  I  presumed  too  much  upon  your  generosity  by 
this  entreaty  to  suffer  an  intercourse  in  which  all  the  gain 
is  mine  alone?  You  could  find  ways  of  showing  the  world, 
to  which  you  sacrifice  so  much,  that  I  am  nothing  to  you ;  you 
are  so  clever  and  so  proud !  What  have  you  to  fear  ?  If  I 
could  only  lay  bare  my  heart  to  you  at  this  moment,  to  con- 
vince you  that  it  is  with  no  lurking  afterthought  that  I  make 
this  humble  request !  Should  I  have  told  you  that  my  love 
was  boundless,  while  I  prayed  you  to  grant  me  friendship,  if 
I  had  any  hope  of  your  sharing  this  feeling  in  the  depths  of 
my  soul?  No,  while  I  am  with  you,  I  will  be  whatever  you 
will,  if  only  I  may  be  with  you.  If  you  refuse  (as  you  have 
the  power  to  refuse),  I  will  not  utter  one  murmur,  I  will  go. 
And  if,  at  a  later  day,  any  other  woman  should  enter  into  my 
life,  you  will  have  proof  that  you  were  right;  but  if  I  am 
faithful  till  death,  you  may  feel  some  regret  perhaps.  The 
hope  of  causing  you  a  regret  will  soothe  my  agony,  and  that 
thought  shall  be  the  sole  revenge  of  a  slighted  heart.  .  .  ." 

Only  those  who  have  passed  through  all  the  exceeding  trib- 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  225 

ulations  of  youth,  who  have  seized  on  all  the  chimeras  with 
two  white  pinions,  the  nightmare  fancies  at  the  disposal  of  a 
fervid  imagination,  can  realize  the  horrors  that  seized  upon 
Gaston  de  Nueil  when  he  had  reason  to  suppose  that  his  ulti- 
matum was  in  Mme.  de  Beauseant's  hands.  He  saw  the  Vi- 
comtesse,  wholly  untouched,  laughing  at  his  letter  and  his 
love,  as  those  can  laugh  who  have  ceased  to  believe  in  love. 
He  could  have  wished  to  have  his  letter  back  again.  It  was  an 
absurd  letter.  There  were  a  thousand  and  one  things,  now 
that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  that  he  might  have  said,  things 
infinitely  better  and  more  moving  than  those  stilted  phrases 
of  his,  those  accursed,  sophisticated,  pretentious,  fine-spun 
phrases,  though,  luckily,  the  punctuation  had  heen  pretty 
bad,  and  the  lines  shockingly  crooked.  He  tried  not  to  think, 
not  to  feel;  but  he  felt  and  thought,  and  was  wretched.  If 
he  had  been  thirty  years  old,  he  might  have  got  drunk,  but 
the  innocence  of  three-and-twenty  knew  nothing  of  the  re- 
sources of  opium  nor  of  the  expedients  of  advanced  civiliza- 
tion. Nor  had  he  at  hand  one  of  those  good  friends  of  the 
Parisian  pattern  who  understand  so  well  how  to  say  Pcete,  non 
dolet!  by  producing  a  bottle  of  champagne,  or  alleviate  the 
agony  of  suspense  by  carrying  you  off  somewhere  to  make  a 
night  of  it.  Capital  fellows  are  they,  always  in  low  water 
when  you  are  in  funds,  always  off  to  some  watering-place 
when  you  go  to  look  them  up,  always  with  some  bad  bargain  in 
horse-flesh  to  sell  you ;  it  is  true,  that  when  you  want  to  bor- 
row of  them,  they  have  always  just  lost  their  last  louis  at 
play;  but  in  all  other  respects  they  are  the  best  fellows  on 
earth,  always  ready  to  embark  with  you  on  one  of  the  steep 
down-grades  where  you  lose  your  time,  your  soul,  and  your 
life! 

At  length  M.  de  Nueil  received  a  missive  through  the  in- 
strumentality of  Jacques,  a  letter  that  bore  the  arms  of  Bur- 
gundy on  the  scented  seal,  a  letter  written  on  vellum  note- 
paper. 

He  rushed  away  at  once  to  lock  himself  in,  and  read  and 
re-read  her  letter: — 
VOL.  5—39 


226  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

<fYou  are  punishing  me  very  severely,  monsieur,  both  for; 
the  friendliness  of  my  effort  to  spare  you  a  rebuff,  and  for 
the  attraction  which  intellect  always  has  for  me.  I  put  con- 
fidence in  the  generosity  of  youth,  and  you  have  disappointed 
me.  And  yet,  if  I  did  not  speak  unreservedly  (which  would 
have  been  perfectly  ridiculous),  at  any  rate  I  spoke  frankly 
of  my  position,  so  that  you  might  imagine  that  I  was  not  to 
be  touched  by  a  young  soul.  My  distress  is  the  keener  for  my 
interest  in  you.  I  am  naturally  tender-hearted  and  kindly, 
but  circumstances  force  me  to  act  unkindly.  Another  woman 
would  have  flung  your  letter,  unread,  into  the  fire ;  I  read  it, 
and  I  am  answering  it.  My  answer  will  make  it  clear  to  you 
that  while  I  am  not  untouched  by  the  expression  of  this  feel- 
ing which  I  have  inspired,  albeit  unconsciously,  I  am  still  far 
from  sharing  it,  and  the  step  which  I  am  about  to  take  will 
show  you  still  more  plainly  that  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  wish 
besides,  to  use,  for  your  welfare,  that  authority,  as  it  were, 
which  you  give  me  over  your  life;  and  I  desire  to  exercise 
it  this  once  to  draw  aside  the  veil  from  your  eyes. 

"I  am  nearly  thirty  years  old,  monsieur;  you  are  barely 
two-and-twenty.  You  yourself  cannot  know  what  your 
thoughts  will  be  at  my  age.  The  vows  that  you  make  so 
lightly  to-day  may  seem  a  very  heavy  burden  to  you  then.  I 
am  quite  willing  to  believe  that  at  this  moment  you  would 
give  me  your  whole  life  without  a  regret,  you  would  even  be 
ready  to  die  for  a  little  brief  happiness;  but  at  the  age  of 
thirty  experience  will  take  from  you  the  very  power  of  making 
daily  sacrifices  for  my  sake,  and  I  myself  should  feel  deeply 
humiliated  if  I  accepted  them.  A  day  would  come  when  every- 
thing, even  Nature,  would  bid  you  leave  me,  and  I  have 
already  told  you  that  death  is  preferable  to  desertion.  Mis- 
fortune has  taught  me  to  calculate ;  as  you  see,  I  am  arguing 
perfectly  dispassionately.  You  force  me  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  no  love  for  you ;  I  ought  not  to  love,  I  cannot,  and  I  will 
not.  It  is  too  late  to  yield,  as  women  yield,  to  a  blind  unrea- 
soning impulse  of  the  heart,  too  late  to  be  the  mistress  whom 
you  seek.  My  consolations  spring  from  God,  not  from  earth. 


THE   DESERTED   WOMAN  227 

Ah,  and  besides,  with  the  melancholy  insight  of  disappointed 
love,  I  read  hearts  too  clearly  to  accept  your  proffered  friend- 
ship. It  is  only  instinct.  I  forgive  the  boyish  ruse,  for 
which  you  are  not  responsible  as  yet.  In  the  name  of  this 
passing  fancy  of  yours,  for  the  sake  of  your  career  and  my 
own  peace  of  mind,  I  bid  you  stay  in  your  own  country;  you 
must  not  spoil  a  fair  and  honorable  life  for  an  illusion  which, 
by  its  very  nature,  cannot  last.  At  a  later  day,  when  you 
have  accomplished  your  real  destiny,  in  the  fully  developed 
manhood. that  awaits  you,  you  will  appreciate  this  answer 
of  mine,  though  to-day  it  may  be  that  you  blame  its  hard- 
ness. You  will  turn  with  pleasure  to  an  old  woman  whose 
friendship  will  certainly  be  sweet  and  precious  to  you  then; 
a  friendship  untried  by  the  extremes  of  passion  and  the  dis- 
enchanting processes  of  life;  a  friendship  which  noble 
thoughts  and  thoughts  of  religion  will  keep  pure  and  sacred. 
Farewell;  do  my  bidding  with  the  thought  that  your  suc- 
cess will  bring  a  gleam  of  pleasure  into  my  solitude,  and  only 
think  of  me  as  we  think  of  absent  friends." 

Gaston  de  Kueil  read  the  letter,  and  wrote  the  following 
lines : — 

"MADAME, — If  I  could  cease  to  love  you,  to  take  the 
chances  of  becoming  an  ordinary  man  which  you  hold  out  to 
me,  you  must  admit  that  I  should  thoroughly  deserve  my  fate. 
No,  I  shall  not  do  as  you  bid  me ;  the  oath  of  fidelity  which  I 
swear  to  you  shall  only  be  absolved  by  death.  Ah !  take  my 
life,  unless  indeed  you  do  not  fear-  to  carry  a  remorse  all 
through  your  own " 

When  the  man  returned  from  his  errand,  M.  de  Nueil  askedi 
him  with  whom  he  left  the  note? 

"I  gave  it  to  Mme.  la  Vicomtesse  herself,  sir;  she  was  ill 
her  carriage  and  just  about  to  start." 

"For  the  town?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  sir.  Mme.  la  Vicomtesse  had  poat- 
horses." 


228  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

"Ah !  then  she  is  going  away,"  said  the  Baron. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  man  answered. 

Gaston  de  Nueil  at  once  prepared  to  follow  Mme.  de 
Beauseant.  She  led  the  way  as  far  as  Geneva,  without  a  sus- 
picion that  he  followed.  And  he  ?  Amid  the  many  thoughts 
that  assailed  him  during  that  journey,  one  all-absorbing 
problem  filled  his  mind — "Why  did  she  go  away?"  Theories 
grew  thickly  on  such  ground  for  supposition,  and  naturally  he 
inclined  to  the  one  that  flattered  his  hopes — "If  the  Vicomt- 
esse  cares  for  me,  a  clever  woman  would,  of  course,  choose 
Switzerland,  where  nobody  knows  either  of  us,  in  preference 
to  France,  where  she  would  find  censorious  critics." 

An  impassioned  lover  of  a  certain  stamp  would  not  feel 
attracted  to  a  woman  clever  enough  to  choose  her  own 
ground;  such  women  are  too  clever.  However,  there  is 
nothing  to  prove  that  there  was  any  truth  in  Gaston's  sup- 
position. 

The  Vicomtesse  took  a  small  house  by  the  side  of  the  lake. 
As  soon  as  she  was  installed  in  it,  Gaston  came  one  summer 
evening  in  the  twilight.  Jacques,  that  flunkey  in  grain, 
showed  no  sign  of  surprise,  and  announced  M.  le  Baron  de 
Nueil  like  a  discreet  domestic  well  acquainted  with  good 
society.  At  the  sound  of  the  name,  at  the  sight  of  its  owner, 
Mme.  de  Beauseant  let  her  book  fall  from  her  hands;  her 
surprise  gave  him  time  to  come  close  to  her,  and  to  say  in 
tones  that  sounded  like  music  in  her  ears: 

"What  joy  it  was  to  me  to  take  the  horses  that  brought  you 
on  this  journey !" 

To  have  the  inmost  desires  of  the  heart  so  fulfilled! 
Where  is  the  woman  who  could  resist  such  happiness  as  this  ? 
An  Italian  woman,  one  of  those  divine  creatures  who,  psycho- 
logically, are  as  far  removed  from  the  Parisian  as  if  they 
lived  at  the  Antipodes,  a  being  who  would  be  regarded  as 
profoundly  immoral  on  this  side  the  Alps,  an  Italian  (to 
resume)  made  the  following  comment  on  some  French  novels 
which  she  had  been  reading.  "I  cannot  see,"  she  remarked, 
"why  these  poor  lovers  take  such  a  time  over  coming  to  an 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  229 

arrangement  which  ought  to  be  the  affair  of  a  single  morn- 
ing." Why  should  not  the  novelist  take  a  hint  from  this 
worthy  lady,  and  refrain  from  exhausting  the  theme  and 
the  reader?  Some  few  passages  of  coquetry  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  pleasant  to  give  in  outline;  the  story  of  Mme.  de 
Beauseant's  demurs  and  sweet  delayings,  that,  like  the  vestal 
virgins  of  antiquity,  she  might  fall  gracefully,  and  by  linger- 
ing over  the  innocent  raptures  of  first  love  draw  from  it  its 
utmost  strength  and  sweetness.  M.  de  Nueil  was  at  an  age 
when  a  man  is  the  dupe  of  these  caprices,  of  the  fence  which 
women  delight  to  prolong;  either  to  dictate  their  own  terms, 
or  to  enjoy  the  sense  of  their  power  yet  longer,  knowing 
instinctively  as  they  do  that  it  must  soon  grow  less.  But, 
after  all,  these  little  boudoir  protocols,  less  numerous  than 
those  of  the  Congress  of  London,  are  too  small  to  be  worth 
mention  in  the  history  of  this  passion. 

For  three  years  Mme.  de  Beauseant  and  M.  de  Nueil  lived 
in  the  villa  on  the  lake  of  Geneva.  They  lived  quite  alone, 
received  no  visitors,  caused  no  talk,  rose  late,  went  out  to- 
gether upon  the  lake,  knew,  in  short,  the  happiness  of  which 
we  all  of  us  dream.  It  was  a  simple  little  house,  with  green 
shutters,  and  broad  balconies  shaded  with  awnings,  a  house 
contrived  of  set  purpose  for  lovers,  with  its  white  couches, 
soundless  carpets,  and  fresh  hangings,  everything  within  it 
reflecting  their  joy.  Every  window  looked  out  on  some  new 
view  of  the  lake ;  in  the  far  distance  lay  the  mountains,  fan- 
tastic visions  of  changing  color  and  evanescent  cloud;  above 
them  spread  the  sunny  sky,  before  them  stretched  the  broad 
sheet  of  water,  never  the  same  in  its  fitful  changes.  All  their 
surroundings  seemed  to  dream  for  them,  all  things  smiled 
upon  them. 

Then  weighty  matters  recalled  M.  de  Nueil  to  France. 
His  father  and  brother  died,  and  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
Geneva.  The  lovers  bought  the  house ;  and  if  they  could  have 
had  their  way,  they  would  have  removed  the  hills  piecemeal, 
drawn  off  the  lake  with  a  siphon,  and  taken  everything  away 
with  them. 


230  THE   DESERTED  WOMAN 

Mme.  de  Beauseant  followed  M.  de  Nueil.  She  realized 
her  property,  and  bought  a  considerable  estate  near  Maner- 
ville,  adjoining  Gaston's  lands,  and  here  they  lived  together; 
Gaston  very  graciously  giving  up  Manerville  to  his  mother 
for  the  present  in  consideration  of  the  bachelor  freedom  in 
which  she  left  him. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant's  estate  was  close  to  a  little  town  in 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  spots  in  the  valley  of  the  Auge. 
Here  the  lovers  raised  barriers  between  themselves  and  social 
intercourse,  barriers  which  no  creature  could  overleap,  and 
here  the  happy  days  of  Switzerland  were  lived  over  again. 
For  nine  whole  years  they  knew  happiness  which  it  serves 
no  purpose  to  describe;  happiness  which  may  be  divined  from 
the  outcome  of  the  story  by  those  whose  souls  can  comprehend 
poetry  and  prayer  in  their  infinite  manifestations. 

All  this  time  Mme.  de  Beauseant's  husband,  the  present 
Marquis  (his  father  and  elder  brother  having  died),  enjoyed 
the  soundest  health.  There  is  no  better  aid  to  life  than  a 
certain  knowledge  that  our  demise  would  confer  a  benefit  on 
some  fellow-creature.  M.  de  Beauseant  was  one  of  those  iron- 
ical and  wayward  beings  who,  like  holders  of  life-annuities, 
wake  with  an  additional  sense  of  relish  every  morning  to  a 
consciousness  of  good  health.  For  the  rest,  he  was  a  man  of 
the  world,  somewhat  methodical  and  ceremonious,  and  a  cal- 
culator of  consequences,  who  could  make  a  declaration  of  love 
as  quietly  as  a  lackey  announces  that  "Madame  is  served." 

This  brief  biographical  notice  of  his  lordship  the  Marquis 
de  Beauseant  is  given  to  explain  the  reasons  why  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  Marquise  to  marry  M.  de  Nueil. 

So,  after  a  nine  years'  lease  of  happiness,  the  sweetest 
agreement  to  which  a  woman  ever  put  her  hand,  M.  de  Nueil 
and  Mme.  de  Beauseant  were  still  in  a  position  quite  as 
natural  and  quite  as  false  as  at  the  beginning  of  their  ad- 
venture. And  yet  they  had  reached  a  fatal  crisis,  which  may 
be  stated  as  clearly  as  any  problem  in  mathematics. 

Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Nueil,  Gaston's  mother,  a  strait-laced 
and  virtuous  person,  who  had  made  the  late  Baron  happy  in 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  231 

strictly  legal  fashion,  would  never  consent  to  meet  Mme.  de 
Beauseant.  Mme.  de  Beauseant  quite  understood  that  the 
wortlry  dowager  must  of  necessity  be  her  enemy,  and  that 
she  would  try  to  draw  Gaston  from  his  unhallowed  and  im- 
moral way  of  life.  The  Marquise  de  Beauseant  would  will- 
ingly have  sold  her  property  and  gone  back  to  Geneva,  but  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  do  it;  it  would  mean  that  she 
distrusted  M.  de  Nueil.  Moreover,  he  had  taken  a  great  fancy 
to  this  very  Valleroy  esta-te,  where  he  was  making  plantations 
and  improvements.  She  would  not  deprive  him  of  a  piece 
of  pleasurable  routine- work,  such  as  women  always  wish  for 
their  husbands,  and  even  for  their  lovers. 

A  Mile,  de  la  Rodiere,  twenty-two  years  of  age,  an  heiress 
with  a  rent-roll  of  forty  thousand  livres,  had  come  to  live  in 
the  neighborhood.  Gaston  always  met  her  at  Manerville 
whenever  he  was  obliged  to  go  thither.  These  various  per- 
sonages being  to  each  other  as  the  terms  of  a  proportion  sum, 
the  following  letter  will  throw  light  on  the  appalling  problem 
which  Mme.  de  Beauseant  had  been  trying  for  the  past  month 
to  solve: — 

"My  beloved  angel,  it  seems  like  nonsense,  does  it  not,  to 
write  to  you  when  there  is  nothing  to  keep  us  apart,  when  a 
caress  so  often  takes  the  place  of  words,  and  words  too  are 
caresses?  Ah,  well,  no,  love.  There  are  some  things  that  a 
woman  cannot  say  when  she  is  face  to  face  with  the  man  she 
loves;  at  the  bare  thought  of  them  her  voice  fails  her,  and 
the  blood  goes  back  to  her  heart;  she  has  no  strength,  no 
intelligence  left.  It  hurts  me  to  feel  like  this  when  you  are 
near  me,  and  it  happens  often.  I  feel  that  my  heart  should 
be  wholly  sincere  for  you ;  that  I  should  disguise  no  thought, 
however  transient,  in  my  heart ;  and  I  love  the  sweet  careless- 
ness, which  suits  me  so  well,  too  much  to  endure  this  em- 
barrassment and  constraint  any  longer.  So  I  will  tell  you 
about  my  anguish — yes,  it  is  anguish.  Listen  to  me !  do  not 
begin  with  the  little  'Tut,  tut,  tut/  that  you  use  to  silence 
me,  an  impertinence  that  I  love,  because  anything  from  you 


232  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

pleases  me.  Dear  soul  from  heaven,  wedded  to  mine,  let  me 
first  tell  you  that  you  have  effaced  all  memory  of  the  pain 
that  once  was  crushing  the  life  out  of  me.  I  did  not  know 
what  love  was  before  I  knew  you.  Only  the  candor  of  your 
beautiful  young  life,  only  the  purity  of  that  great  soul  of 
yours,  could  satisfy  the  requirements  of  an  exacting  woman's 
heart.  Dear  love,  how  very  often  I  have  thrilled  with  joy  to 
think  that  in  these  nine  long,  swift  years,  my  jealousy  has 
not  been  once  awakened.  All  the  flowers  of  your  soul  have 
been  mine,  all  your  thoughts.  There  has  not  been  the  faint- 
est cloud  in  our  heaven;  we  have  not  known  what  sacrifice 
is;  we  have  always  acted  on  the  impulses  of  our  hearts.  I 
have  known  happiness,  infinite  for  a  woman.  Will  the  tears 
that  drench  this  sheet  tell  you  all  my  gratitude?  I  could 
wish  that  I  had  knelt  to  write  the  words ! — Well,  out  of  this 
felicity  has  arisen  torture  more  terrible  than  the  pain  of  de- 
sertion. Dear,  there  are  very  deep  recesses  in  a  woman's 
heart ;  how  deep  in  my  own  heart,  I  did  not  know  myself  until 
to-day,  as  I  did  not  know  the  whole  extent  of  love.  The 
greatest  misery  which  could  overwhelm  us  is  a  light  burden 
compared  with  the  mere  thought  of  harm  for  him  whom  we 
love.  And  how  if  we  cause  the  harm,  is  it  not  enough  to  make 
one  die  ?  .  .  .  This  is  the  thought  that  is  weighing  upon 
me.  But  it  brings  in  its  train  another  thought  that  is  heav- 
ier far,  a  thought  that  tarnishes  the  glory  of  love,  and  slays 
it,  and  turns  it  into  a  humiliation  which  sullies  life  as  long 
as  it  lasts.  You  are  thirty  years  old;  I  am  forty.  What 
dread  this  difference  in  age  calls  up  in  a  woman  who  loves ! 
It  is  possible  that,  first  of  all  unconsciously,  afterwards  in 
earnest,  you  have  felt  the  sacrifices  that  you  have  made  by 
renouncing  all  in  the  world  for  me.  Perhaps  you  have 
thought  of  your  future  from  the  social  point  of  view,  of  the 
marriage  which  would,  of  course,  increase  your  fortune,  and 
give  you  avowed  happiness  and  children  who  would  inherit 
your  wealth;  perhaps  you  have  thought  of  reappearing  in 
the  world,  and  filling  your  place  there  honorably.  And  then, 
if  so,  you  must  have  repressed  those  thoughts,  and  felt  glad 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  233 

to  sacrifice  heiress  and  fortune  and  a  fair  future  to  me  with- 
out my  knowledge.  In  your  young  man's  generosity,  you 
must  have  resolved  to  be  faithful  to  the  vows  which  bind  us 
each  to  each  in  the  sight  of  God.  My  past  pain  has  risen 
up  before  your  mind,  and  the  misery  from  which  you  res- 
cued me  has  been  my  protection.  To  owe  your  love  to  your 
pity !  The  thought  is  even  more  painful  to  me  than  the  fear 
of  spoiling  your  life  for  you.  The  man  who  can  bring  him- 
self to  stab  his  mistress  is  very  charitable  if  he  gives  her  her 
deathblow  while  she  is  happy  and  ignorant  of  evil,  while  illu- 
sions are  in  full  blossom.  .  .  .  Yes,  death  is  preferable 
to  the  two  thoughts  which  have  secretly  saddened  the  hours 
for  several  days.  To-day,  when  you  asked  'What  ails  you?' 
so  tenderly,  the  sound  of  your  voice  made  me  shiver.  I 
thought  that,  after  your  wont,  you  were  reading  my  very 
soul,  and  I  waited  for  your  confidence  to  come,  thinking  that 
my  presentiments  had  come  true,  and  that  I 'had  guessed  at 
all  that  was  going  on  in  your  mind.  Then  I  began  to  think 
over  certain  little  things  that  you  always  do  for  me,  and  I 
thought  I  could  see  in  you  the  sort  of  affectation  by  which  a 
man  betrays  a  consciousness  that  his  loyalty  is  becoming  a 
burden.  And  in  that  moment  I  paid  very  dear  for  my  hap- 
piness. I  felt  that  Nature  always  demands  the  price  for  the 
treasure  called  love.  Briefly,  has  not  fate  separated  us  ?  Can 
you  have  said,  'Sooner  or  later  I  must  leave  poor  Claire; 
why  not  separate  in  time?'  I  read  that  thought  in  the 
depths  of  your  eyes,  and  went  away  to  cry  by  myself.  Hid- 
ing my  tears  from  you !  the  first  tears  that  I  have  shed  for 
sorrow  for  these  ten  years ;  I  am  too  proud  to  let  you  see  them, 
but  I  did  not  reproach  you  in  the  least. 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  I  ought  not  to  be  so  selfish  as  to  bind 
your  long  and  brilliant  career  to  my  so-soon  out-worn  life. 
.  .  .  And  yet — how  if  I  have  been  mistaken?  How  if  I 
have  taken  your  love  melancholy  for  a  deliberation?  Oh,  my 
love,  do  not  leave  me  in  suspense;  punish  this  jealous  wife 
of  yours,  but  give  her  back  the  sense  of  her  love  and  yours; 
the  whole  woman  lies  in  that — that  consciousness  sanctifies 
everything. 


284  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

"Since  your  mother  came,  since  you  paid  a  visit  to  Mile, 
de  Kodiere,  I  have  been  gnawed  by  doubts  dishonoring  to  us 
both.  Make  me  suffer  for  this,  but  do  not  deceive  me;  I  want 
to  know  everything  that  your  mother  said  and  that  you 
think!  If  you  have  hesitated  between  some  alternative  and 
me,  I  give  you  back  your  liberty.  .  .  .1  will  not  let  you 
know  what  happens  to  me;  I  will  not  shed  tears  for  you  to 
see ;  only — I  will  not  see  you  again.  .  .  .  Ah !  I  cannot 
go  on,  my  heart  is  breaking  .  .  . 

I  have  been  sitting  benumbed  and  stupid  for  some  moments. 
Dear  love,  I  do  not  find  that  any  feeling  of  pride  rises  against 
you;  you  are  so  kind-hearted,  so  open;  you  would  find  it  im- 
possible to  hurt  me  or  to  deceive  me;  and  you  will  tell  me 
the  truth,  however  cruel  it  may  be.  Do  you  wish  me  to  en- 
courage your  confession  ?  Well,  then,  heart  of  mine,  I  shall 
find  comfort  in-  a  woman's  thought.  Has  not  the  youth  of 
your  being  been  mine,  your  sensitive,  wholly  gracious,  beau- 
tiful, and  delicate  youth?  No  woman  shall  find  henceforth 
the  Gaston  whom  I  have  known,  nor  the  delicious  happiness 
that  he  has  given  me.  .  .  .  No ;  you  will  never  love  again 
as  you  have  loved,  as  you  love  me  now ;  no,  I  shall  never  have 
a  rival,  it  is  impossible.  There  will  be  no  bitterness  in  my 
memories  of  our  love,  and  I  shall  think  of  nothing  else.  It 
is  out  of  your  power  to  enchant  any  woman  henceforth  by  the 
childish  provocations,  the  charming  ways  of  a  young  heart, 
the  soul's  winning  charm,  the  body's  grace,  the  swift  com- 
munion of  rapture,  the  whole  divine  cortege  of  young  love, 
in  fine. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  man  now,  you  will  obey  your  destiny, 
weighing  and  considering  all  things.  You  will  have  cares, 
and  anxieties,  and  ambitions,  and  concerns  that  will  rob  her 
of  the  unchanging  smile  that  made  your  lips  fair  for  me. 
The  tones  that  were  always  so  sweet  for  me  will  be  troubled 
at  times;  and  your  eyes  that  lighted  up  with  radiance  from 
heaven  at  the  sight  of  me,  will  often  be  lustreless  for  her. 
And  besides,  as  it  is  impossible  to  love  you  as  I  love  you, 


THE   DESERTED   WOMAN  235 

you  will  never  care  for  that  woman  as  you  have  cared  for 
me.  She  will  never  keep  a  constant  watch  over  herself  as  I 
have  done;  she  will  never  study  your  happiness  at  every 
moment  with  an  intuition  which  has  never  failed  me.  Ah, 
yes,  the  man,  the  heart  and  soul,  which  I  shall  have  known 
will  exist  no  longer.  I  shall  bury  him  deep  in  my  memory, 
that  I  may  have  the  joy  of  him  still;  I  shall  live  happy  in 
that  fair  past  life  of  ours,  a  life  hidden  from  all  but  our 
inmost  selves. 

"Dear  treasure  of  mine,  if  all  the  while  no  least  thought 
of  liberty  has  risen  in  your  mind,  if  my  love  is  no  burden  on 
you,  if  my  fears  are  chimerical,  if  I  am  still  your  Eve — the 
one  woman  in  the  world  for  you — come  to  me  as  soon  as  you 
have  read  this  letter,  come  quickly  !  Ah,  in  one  moment  I  will 
love  you  more  than  I  have  ever  loved  you,  I  think,  in  these 
nine  years.  After  enduring  the  needless  torture  of  these 
doubts  of  which  I  am  accusing  myself,  every  added  day  of 
love,  yes,  every  single  day,  will  be  a  whole  lifetime  of  bliss. 
So  speak,  and  speak  openly;  do  not  deceive  me,  it  would  be 
a  crime.  Tell  me,  do  you  wish  for  your  liberty?  Have  you 
thought  of  all  that  a  man's  life  means?  Is  there  any  regret 
in  your  mind  ?  That  I  should  cause  you  a  regret !  I  should 
die  of  it.  I  have  said  it:  I  love  you  enough  to  set  your  hap- 
piness above  mine,  your  life  before  my  own.  Leave  on  one 
side,  if  you  can,  the  wealth  of  memories  of  our  nine  years' 
happiness,  that  they  may  not  influence  your  decision,  but 
speak !  I  submit  myself  to  you  as  to  God,  the  one  Consoler 
who  remains  if  you  forsake  me." 

When  Mme.  de  Beauseant  knew  that  her  letter  was  in  M. 
de  Nueil's  hands,  she  sank  in  such  utter  prostration,  the  over- 
pressure of  many  thoughts  so  numbed  her  faculties,  that  she 
seemed  almost  drowsy.  At  any  rate,  she  was  suffering  from 
a  pain  not  always  proportioned  in  its  intensity  to  a  woman's 
strength;  pain  which  women  alone  know.  And  while  the 
unhappy  Marquise  awaited  her  doom,  M.  de  JSTueil,  reading 
her  letter,  felt  that  he  was  "in  a  very  difficult  position/'  to 


336  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

use  the  expression  that  young  men  apply  to  a  crisis  of  this 
kind. 

By  this  time  he  had  all  but  yielded  to  his  mother's  impor- 
tunities and  to  the  attractions  of  Mile,  de  la  Rodiere,  a  some- 
what insignificant,  pink-and-white  young  person,  as  straight 
as  a  poplar.  It  is  true  that,  in  accordance  with  the  rules  laid 
down  for  marriageable  young  ladies,  she  scarcely  opened  her 
mouth,  but  her  rent-roll  of  forty  thousand  livres  spoke  quite 
sufficiently  for  her.  Mme.  de  Nueil,  with  a  mother's  sincere 
affection,  tried  to  entangle  her  son  in  virtuous  courses.  She 
called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  a  flattering  dis- 
tinction to  be  preferred  by  Mile,  de  la  Rodiere,  who  had  re- 
fused so  many  great  matches;  it  was  quite  time,  she  urged, 
that  he  should  think  of  his  future,  such  a  good  opportunity 
might  not  repeat  itself,  some  day  he  would  have  eighty  thou- 
sand livres  of  income  from  land;  money  made  anything 
bearable;  if  Mme.  de  Beauseant  loved  him  for  his  own  sake, 
she  ought  to  be  the  first  to  urge  him  to  marry.  In  short,  the 
well-intentioned  mother  forgot  no  arguments  which  the 
feminine  intellect  can  bring  to  bear  upon  the  masculine  mind, 
and  by  these  means  she  had  brought  her  son  into  a  wavering 
condition. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant's  letter  arrived  just  as  Gaston's  love 
of  her  was  holding  out  against  the  temptations  of  a  settled 
life  conformable  to  received  ideas.  That  letter  decided  the 
day.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  break  off  with  the  Marquise 
and  to  marry. 

"One  must  live  a  man's  life,"  said  he  to  himself. 

Then  followed  some  inkling  of  the  pain  that  this  decision 
would  give  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant.  The  man's  vanity  and 
the  lover's  conscience  further  exaggerated  this  pain,  and  a 
sincere  pity  for  her  seized  upon  him.  All  at  once  the  im- 
mensity of  the  misery  became  apparent  to  him,  and  he 
thought  it  necessary  and  charitable  to  deaden  the  deadly 
blow.  He  hoped  to  bring  Mme.  de  Beauseant  to  a  calm 
frame  of  mind  by  gradually  reconciling  her  to  the  idea  of 
separation;  while  Mile,  de  la  Rodiere,  always  like  a  shadowy 


THE  DESERTED   WOMAN  237 

third  between  them,  should  be  sacrificed  to  her  at  first,  only 
to  ba  imposed  upon  her  later.  His  marriage  should  take 
place  later,  in  obedience  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant's  expressed 
wish.  He  went  so  far  as  to  enlist  the  Marquise's  nobleness 
and  pride  and  all  the  great  qualities  of  her  nature  to  help 
him  to  succeed  in  this  compassionate  design.  He  would  write 
a  letter  at  once  to  allay  her  suspicions.  A  letter!  For  a 
woman  with  the  most  exquisite  feminine  perception,  as  well 
as  the  intuition  of  passionate  love,  a  letter  in  itself  was  a  sen- 
tence of  death. 

So  when  Jacques  came  and  brought  Mme.  de  Beauseant 
a  sheet  of  paper  folded  in  a  triangle,  she  trembled,  poor 
woman,  like  a  snared  swallow.  A  mysterious  sensation  of 
physical  cold  spread  from  head  to  foot,  wrapping  her  about 
in  an  icy  winding  sheet.  If  he  did  not  rush  to  her  feet,  if  he 
did  not  come  to  her  in  tears,  and  pale,  and  like  a  lover,  she 
knew  that  all  was  lost.  And  yet,  so  many  hopes  are  there 
in  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  loves,  that  she  is  only  slain  by 
stab  after-  stab,  and  loves  on  till  the  last  drop  of  life-blood 
drains  away. 

"Does  madame  need  anything?"  Jacques  asked  gently,  as 
he  went  away. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Poor  fellow !"  she  thought,  brushing  a  tear  from  her  eyes, 
"he  guesses  my  feelings,  servant  though  he  is !" 

She  read:  "My  beloved,  you  are  inventing  idle  terrors  for 
yourself  .  .  ."  The  Marquise  gazed  at  the  words,  and  a 
thick  mist  spread  before  her  eyes.  A  voice  in  her  heart  cried, 
"He  lies !" — Then  she  glanced  down  the  page  with  the  clair- 
voyant eagerness  of  passion,  and  read  these  words  at  the  foot, 
"Nothing  has  been  decided  as  yet  .  .  ."  Turning  to  the 
other  side  with  convulsive  quickness,  she  saw  the  mind  of  the 
writer  distinctly  through  the  intricacies  of  the  wording;  this 
was  no  spontaneous  outburst  of  love.  She  crushed  it  in  her 
fingers,  twisted  it,  tore  it  with  her  teeth,  flung  it  in  the  fire, 
and  cried  aloud,  "Ah !  base  that  he  is !  I  was  his,  and  he  had 
ceased  to  love  me!" 


238  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

She  sank  half  dead  upon  the  couch. 

M.  de  Nueil  went  out  as  soon  as  he  had  written  his  letter. 
When  he  came  back,  Jacques  met  him  on  the  threshold  with 
a  note.  "Madame  la  Marquise  has  left  the  chateau,"  said 
the  man. 

M.  de  Nueil,  in  amazement,  broke  the  seal  and  read : — 

"MADAME, — If  I  could  cease  to  love  you,  to  take  the 
chances  of  becoming  an  ordinary  man  which  you  hold  out 
to  me,  you  must  admit  that  I  should  thoroughly  deserve  my 
fate.  No,  I  shall  not  do  as  you  bid  me ;  the  oath  of  fidelity 
which  I  swear  to  you  shall  only  be  absolved  by  death.  Ah ! 
take  my  life,  unless  indeed  you  do  not  fear  to  carry  a  remorse 
all  through  your  own  .  .  ." 

It  was  his  own  letter,  written  to  the  Marquise  as  she  set 
out  for  Geneva  nine  years  before.  At  the  foot  of  it  Claire  de 
Bourgogne  had  written,  "Monsieur,  you  are  free."  • 

M.  de  Nueil  went  to  his  mother  at  Manerville.  In  less 
than  three  weeks  he  married  Mile.  Stephanie  de  la  Rodiere. 

If  this  commonplace  story  of  real  life  ended  here,  it  would 
be  to  some  extent  a  sort  of  mystification.  The  first  man  you 
meet  can  tell  you  a  better.  But  the  widespread  fame  of  the 
catastrophe  (for,  unhappily,  this  is  a  true  tale),  and  all  the 
memories  which  it  may  arouse  in  those  who  have  known  the 
divine  delights  of  infinite  passion,  and  lost  them  by  their  own 
deed,  or  through  the  cruelty  of  fate, — these  things  may  per- 
haps shelter  the  story  from  criticism. 

Mme.  la  Marquise  de  Beauseant  never  left  Valleroy  after 
her  parting  from  M.  de  Nueil.  After  his  marriage  she  still 
continued  to  live  there,  for  some  inscrutable  woman's  reason ; 
any  woman  is  at  liberty  to  assign  the  one  which  most  appeals 
to  her.  Claire  de  Bourgogne  lived  in  such  complete  retire- 
ment that  none  of  the  servants,  save  Jacques  and  her  own 
woman,  ever  saw  their  mistress.  She  required  absolute  si- 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN  239 

lence  all  about  her,  and  only  left  her  room  to  go  to  the  chapel 
on  the  Valleroy  estate,  whither  a  neighboring  priest  came  to 
say  mass  every  morning. 

The  Comte  de  Nueil  sank  a  few  days  after  his  marriage 
into  something  like  conjugal  apathy,  which  might  be  inter- 
preted to  mean  happiness  or  unhappiness  equally  easily. 

"My  son  is  perfectly  happy,"  his  mother  said  everywhere. 

Mme.  Gaston  de  Nueil,  like  a  great  many  young  women, 
was  a  rather  colorless  character,  sweet  and  passive.  A  month 
after  her  marriage  she  had  expectations  of  becoming  a 
mother.  All  this  was  quite  in  accordance  with  ordinary 
views.  M.  de  Nueil  was  very  nice  to  her;  but  two  months 
after  his  separation  from  the  Marquise,  he  grew  notably 
thoughtful  and  abstracted.  But  then  he  always  had  been 
serious,  his  mother  said. 

After  seven  months  of  this  tepid  happiness,  a  little  thing 
occurred,  one  of  those  seemingly  small  matters  which  imply 
such  great  development  of  thought  and  such  widespread 
trouble  of  soul,  that  only  the  bare  fact  can  be  recorded;  the 
interpretation  of  it  must  be  left  to  the  fancy  of  each  indi- 
vidual mind.  One  day,  when  M.  de  Nueil  had  been  shooting 
over  the  lands  of  Manerville  and  Valleroy,  he  crossed  Mme. 
de  Beauseant's  park  on  his  way  home,  summoned  Jacques,  and 
when  the  man  came,  asked  him,  "Whether  the  Marquise  was 
as  fond  of  game  as  ever?" 

Jacques  answering  in  the  affirmative,  Gaston  offered  him 
a  good  round  sum  (accompanied  by  plenty  of  specious  rea- 
soning) for  a  very  little  service.  Would  he  set  aside  for  the 
Marquise  the  game  that  the  Count  would  bring?  It  seemed 
to  Jacques  to  be  a  matter  of  no  great  importance  whether 
the  partridge  on  which  his  mistress  dined  had  been  shot  by 
her  keeper  or  by  M.  de  Nueil,  especially  since  the  latter  par- 
ticularly wished  that  the  Marquise  should  know  nothing 
about  it. 

"It  was  killed  on  her  land,"  said  the  Count,  and  for  some 
days  Jacques  lent  himself  to  the  harmless  deceit.  Day  after 
day  M*.  de  Nueil  went  shooting,  and  came  back  at  dinner- 


240  THE   DESERTED   WOMAN 

time  with  an  empty  bag.  A  whole  week  went  by  in  this  way. 
Gaston  grew  bold  enough  to  write  a  long  letter  to  the  Mar- 
quise, and  had  it  conveyed  to  her.  It  was  returned  to  him 
unopened.  The  Marquise's  servant  brought  it  back  about 
nightfall.  The  Count,  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  listening, 
while  his  wife  at  the  piano  mangled  a  Caprice  of  Herold's, 
suddenly  sprang  up  and  rushed  out  to  the  Marquise,  as  if  he 
were  flying  to  an  assignation.  He  dashed  through  a  well- 
known  gap  into  the  park,  and  went  slowly  along  the  avenues, 
stopping  now  and  again  for  a  little  to  still  the  loud  beating 
of  his  heart.  Smothered  sounds  as  he  came  nearer  the 
chateau  told  him  that  the  servants  must  be  at  supper,  and 
he  went  straight  to  Mme.  de  Beauseant's  room. 

Mme.  de  Beauseant  never  left  her  bedroom.  M.  de  Nueil 
could  gain  the  doorway  without  making  the  slightest  sound. 
There,  by  the  light  of  two  wax  candles,  he  saw  the  thin,  white 
Marquise  in  a  great  armchair ;  her  head  was  bowed,  her  hands 
hung  listlessly,  her  eyes  gazing  fixedly  at  some  object  which 
she  did  not  seem  to  see.  Her  whole  attitude  spoke  of  hope- 
less pain.  There  was  a  vague  something  like  hope  in  her  bear- 
ing, but  it  was  impossible  to  say  whither  Claire  de  Bourgogne 
was  looking — forwards  to  the  tomb  or  backwards  into  the 
past.  Perhaps  M.  de  NueiPs  tears  glittered  in  the  deep 
shadows;  perhaps  his  breathing  sounded  faintly;  perhaps 
unconsciously  he  trembled,  or  again  it  may  have  been  impos- 
sible that  he  should  stand  there,  his  presence  unfelt  by  that 
quick  sense  which  grows  to  be  an  instinct,  the  glory,  the  de- 
light, the  proof  of  perfect  love.  However  it  was,  Mme.  de 
Beauseant  slowly  turned  her  face  towards  the  doorway,  and 
beheld  her  lover  of  bygone  days.  Then  Gaston  de  Nueil  came 
forward  a  few  paces. 

"If  you  come  any  further,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  Marquise, 
growing  paler,  "I  shall  fling  myself  out  of  the  window !" 

She  sprang  to  the  window,  flung  it  open,  and  stood  with 
one  foot  on  the  ledge,  her  hand  upon  the  iron  balustrade,  her 
face  turned  towards  Gaston. 

"Go  out !  go  out !"  she  cried,  "or  I  will  throw  myself  over." 


THE   DESERTED  WOMAN  241 

At  that  dreadful  cry  the  servants  began  to  stir,  and  M.  de 
Nueil  fled  like  a  criminal. 

When  he  reached  his  home  again  he  wrote  a  few  lines  and 
gave  them  to  his  own  man,  telling  him  to  give  the  letter  him- 
self into  Mme.  de  Beauseant's  hands,  and  to  say  that  it  was 
a  matter  of  life  and  death  for  his  master.  The  messenger 
went.  M.  de  Nueil  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  where 
his  wife  was  still  murdering  the  Caprice,  and  sat  down  to  wait 
till  the  answer  came.  An  hour  later,  when  the  Caprice  had 
come  to  an  end,  and  the  husband  and  wife  sat  in  silence  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  hearth,  the  man  came  back  from  Valle- 
roy  and  gave  his  master  his  own  letter,  unopened. 

M.  de  Nueil  went  into  a  small  room  beyond  the  drawing- 
room,  where  he  had  left  his  rifle,  and  shot  himself. 

The  swift  and  fatal  ending  of  the  drama,  contrary  as  it  is 
to  all  the  habits  of  young  France,  is  only  what  might  have 
been  expected.  Those  who  have  closely  observed,  or  known 
for  themselves  by  delicious  experience,  all  that  is  meant  by  the 
perfect  union  of  two  beings,  will  understand  Gaston  de 
NueiFs  suicide  perfectly  well.  A  woman  does  not  bend  and 
form  herself  in  a  day  to  the  caprices  of  passion.  The 
pleasure  of  loving,  like  some  rare  flower,  needs  the  most 
careful  ingenuity  of  culture.  Time  alone,  and  two  souls 
attuned  each  to  each,  can  discover  all  its  resources,  and  call 
into  being  all  the  tender  and  delicate  delights  for  which  we 
are  steeped  in  a  thousand  superstitions,  imagining  them  to 
be  inherent  in  the  heart  that  lavishes  them  upon  us.  It  is 
this  wonderful  response  of  one  nature  to  another,  this 
religious  belief,  this  certainty  of  finding  peculiar  or  excessive 
happiness  in  the  presence  of  one  we  love,  that  accounts  in 
part  for  perdurable  attachments  and  long-lived  passion.  If  a 
woman  possesses  the  genius  of  her  sex,  love  never  comes  to 
be  a  matter  of  use  and  wont.  She  brings  all  her  heart  and 
brain  to  love,  clothes  her  tenderness  in  forms  so  varied,  there 
is  such  art  in  her  most  natural  moments,  or  so  much  nature 
in  her  art,  that  in  absence  her  memory  is  almost  as  potent  as 
VOL.  5—40 


242  THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 

her  presence.  All  other  women  are  as  shadows  com- 
pared with  her.  Not  until  we  have  lost  or  known  the  dread 
of  losing  a  love  so  vast  and  glorious,  do  we  prize  it  at  its  just 
worth.  And  if  a  man  who  has  once  possessed  this  love  shuts 
himself  out  from  it  by  his  own  act  and  deed,  and  sinks  to 
some  loveless  marriage;  if  by  some  incident,  hidden  in  the 
obscurity  of  married  life,  the  woman  with  whom  he  hoped  to 
know  the  same  felicity  makes  it  clear  that  it  will  never  be 
revived  for  him;  if,  with  the  sweetness  of  divine  love  still  on 
his  lips,  he  has  dealt  a  deadly  wound  to  her,  his  wife  in 
truth,  whom  he  forsook  for  a  social  chimera, — then  he  must 
either  die  or  take  refuge  in  a  materialistic,  selfish,  and  heart- 
less philosophy,  from-  which  impassioned  souls  shrink  in 
horror. 

As  for  Mme.  de  Beauseant,  she  doubtless  did  not  imagine 
that  her  friend's  despair  could  drive  him  to  suicide,  when  he 
had  drunk  deep  of  love  for  nine  years.  Possibly  she  may 
have  thought  that  she  alone  was  to  suffer.  At  any  rate,  she 
did  quite  rightly  to  refuse  the  most  humiliating  of  all  posi- 
tions; a  wife  may  stoop  for  weighty  social  reasons  to  a  kind 
of  compromise  which  a  mistress  is  bound  to  hold  in  abhor- 
rence, for  in  the  purity  of  her  passion  lies  all  its  justification. 

ANGOTIL^MK,  September  1832. 


LA  GRENADIERE 

To  D.  W. 

LA  GRENADI^RE  is  a  little  house  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Loire  as  you  go  down  stream,  about  a  mile  below  the  bridge 
of  Tours.  At  this  point  the  river,  broad  as  a  lake,  and  cov- 
ered with  scattered  green  islands,  flows  between  two  lines  of 
cliff,  where  country  houses  built  uniformly  of  white  stone 
stand  among  their  gardens  and  vineyards.  The  finest  fruit 
in  the  world  ripens  there  with  a  southern  exposure.  The 
patient  toil  of  many  generations  has  cut  terraces  in  the  cliff, 
so  that  the  face  of  the  rock  reflects  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
the  produce  of  hot  climates  may  be  grown  out  of  doors  in  an 
artificially  high  temperature. 

A  church  spire,  rising  out  of  one  of  the  shallower  dips  in 
the  line  of  cliff,  marks  the  little  village  of  Saint-Cyr,  to  which 
the  scattered  houses  all  belong.  And  yet  a  little  further  the 
Choisille  flows  into  the  Loire,  through  a  fertile  valley  cut  in 
the  long  low  downs. 

La  Grenadiere  itself,  half-way  up  the  hillside,  and  about 
a  hundred  paces  from  the  church,  is  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  houses  dating  back  some  two  or  three  hundred 
years,  which  you  find  in  every  picturesque  spot  in  Touraine. 
A  fissure  in  the  rock  affords  convenient  space  for  a  flight  of 
steps  descending  gradually  to  the  "dike" — the  local  name 
for  the  embankment  made  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  to  keep 
the  Loire  in  its  bed,  and  serve  as  a  causeway  for  the  highroad 
from  Paris  to  Nantes.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  a  gate  opens 
upon  a  narrow  stony  footpath  between  two  terraces,  for  here 
the  soil  is  banked  up,  and  walls  are  built  to  prevent  landslips. 
These  earthworks,  as  it  were,  are  crowned  with  trellises  and 

(243) 


244  LA  GRENADIERS 

espaliers,  so  that  the  steep  path  that  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
upper  wall  is  almost  hidden  by  the  trees  that  grow  on  the  top 
of  the  lower,  upon  which  it  lies.  The  view  of  the  river 
widens  out  before  you  at  every  step  as  you  climb  to  the  house. 

At  the  end  you  come  to  a  second  gateway,  a  Gothic  arch- 
way covered  with  simple  ornament,  now  crumbling  into  ruin 
and  overgrown  with  wildflowers — moss  and  ivy,  wallflowers 
and  pellitory.  Every  stone  wall  on  the  hillside  is  decked  with 
this  ineradicable  plant-life,  which  springs  up  along  the 
cracks  between  the  courses  of  masonry,  tracing  out  the  lines 
afresh  with  new  wreaths  for  every  time  of  year. 

The  worm-eaten  gate  gives  into  a  little  garden,  a  strip  of 
turf,  a  few  trees,  and  a  wilderness  of  flowers  and  rose  bushes 
— a  garden  won  from  the  rock  on  the  highest  terrace  of  all, 
with  the  dark,  old  balustrade  along  its  edge.  .  Opposite  the 
gateway,  a  wooden  summer-house  stands  against  the  neigh- 
boring wall,  the  posts  are  covered  with  jessamine  and  honey- 
suckle, vines  and  clematis. 

The  house  itself  stands  in  the  middle  of  this  highest  gar- 
den, above  a  vine-covered  flight  of  steps,  with  an  arched 
doorway  beneath  that  leads  to  vast  cellars  hollowed  out  in 
the  rock.  All  about  the  dwelling  trellised  vines  and  pome- 
granate-trees (the  grenadiers,  which  give  the  name  to  the 
little  close)  are  growing  out  in  the  open  air.  The  front  of 
the  house  consists  of  two  large  windows  on  either  side  of  a 
very  rustic-looking  house  door,  and  three  dormer  windows  in 
the  roof — a  slate  roof  with  two  gables,  prodigiously  high- 
pitched  in  proportion  to  the  low  ground-floor.  The  house 
walls  are  washed  with  yellow  color;  and  door,  and  first-floor 
shutters,  and  the  Venetian  shutters  of  the  attic  windows,  all 
are  painted  green. 

Entering  the  house,  you  find  yourself  in  a  little  lobby  with 
a  crooked  staircase  straight  in  front  of  you.  It  is  a  crazy 
wooden  structure,  the  spiral  balusters  are  brown  with  age,  and 
the  steps  themselves  take  a  new  angle  at  every  turn.  The 
great  old-fashioned  paneled  dining-room,  floored  with  square 
white  tiles  from  Chateau-Kegnault,  is  on  your  right;  to  the 


LA  GBENADIERE  245 

left  is  the  sitting-room,  equally  large,  but  here  the  walls  are 
not  paneled;  they  have  been  covered  instead  with  a  saffron- 
colored  paper,  bordered  with  green.  The  walnut-wood  rafters 
are  left  visible,  and  the  intervening  spaces  filled  with  a  kind 
of  white  plaster. 

The  first  story  consists  of  two  large  whitewashed  bed- 
rooms with  stone  chimney-pieces,  less  elaborately  carved  than 
those  in  the  rooms  beneath.  Every  door  and  window  is  on 
the  south  side  of  the  house,  save  a  single  door  to  the  north, 
contrived  behind  the  staircase  to  give  access  to  the  vineyard. 
Against  the  western  wall  stands  a  supplementary  timber- 
framed  structure,  all  the  woodwork  exposed  to  the  weather 
being  fledged  with  slates,  so  that  the  walls  are  checkered 
with  bluish  lines.  This  shed  (for  it  is  little  more)  is  the 
kitchen  of  the  establishment.  You  can  pass  from  it  into  the 
house  without  going  outside;  but,  nevertheless,  it  boasts  an 
entrance  door  of  its  own,  and  a  short  flight  of  steps  that 
brings  you  to  a  deep  well,  and  a  very  rustical-looking  pump, 
half  hidden  by  water-plants  and  savin  bushes  and  tall 
grasses.  The  kitchen  is  a  modern  addition,  proving  beyond 
doubt  that  La  Grenadiere  was  originally  nothing  but  a  simple 
vendangeoir — a  vintage-house  belonging  to  townsfolk  in 
Tours,  from  which  Saint-Cyr  is  separated  by  the  vast  river- 
bed of  the  Loire.  The  owners  only  came  over  for  the  day  for 
a  picnic,  or  at  the  vintage-time,  sending  provisions  across  in 
the  morning,  and  scarcely  ever  spent  the  night  there  except 
during  the  grape  harvest;  but  the  English  settled  down  on 
Touraine  like  a  cloud  of  locusts,  and  La  Grenadiere  must,  of 
course,  be  completed  if  it  was  to  find  tenants.  Luckily,  how- 
ever, this  recent  appendage  is  hidden  from  sight  by  the  first 
two  trees  of  a  lime-tree  avenue  planted  in  a  gully  below  the 
vineyards. 

There  are  only  two  acres  of  vineyard  at  most,  the  ground 
rising  at  the  back  of  the  house  so  steeply  that  it  is  no  very 
easy  matter  to  scramble  up  among  the  vines.  The  slope, 
covered  with  green  trailing  shoots,  ends  within  about  five 
feet  of  the  house  wall  in  a  ditch-like  passage  always  damp  and 


246  LA  GRENADIERS 

cold  and  full  of  strong  growing  green  things,  fed  by  the 
drainage  of  the  highly  cultivated  ground  above,  for  rainy 
weather  washes  down  the  manure  into  the  garden  on  the 
terrace. 

A  vinedresser's  cottage  also  leans  against  the  western 
gable,  and  is  in  some  sort  a  continuation  of  the  kitchen. 
Stone  walls  or  espaliers  surround  the  property,  and  all  sorts 
of  fruit-trees  are  planted  among  the  vines,  in  short,  not  an 
inch  of  this  precious  soil  is  wasted.  If  by  chance  man  over- 
looks some  dry  cranny  in  the  rocks,  Nature  puts  in  a  fig- 
tree,  or  sows  wildflowers  or  strawberries  in  sheltered  nooks 
among  the  stones. 

Nowhere  else  in  all  the  world  will  you  find  a  human 
dwelling  so  humble  and  yet  so  imposing,  so  rich  in  fruit,  and 
fragrant  scents,  and  wide  views  of  country.  Here  is  a  minia- 
ture Touraine  in  the  heart  of  Touraine — all  its  flowers  and 
fruits  and  all  the  characteristic  beauty  of  the  land  are  fully 
represented.  Here  are  grapes  of  every  district,  figs  and 
peaches  and  pears  of  every  kind;  melons  are  grown  out  of 
doors  as  easily  as  licorice  plants,  Spanish  broom,  Italian 
oleanders,  and  jessamines  from  the  Azores.  The  Loire  lies  at 
your  feet.  You  look  down  from  the  terrace  upon  the  ever- 
changing  river  nearly  two  hundred  feet  below;  and  in  the 
evening  the  breeze  brings  a  fresh  scent  of  the  sea,  with  the 
fragrance  of  far-off  flowers  gathered  upon  its  way.  Some 
cloud  wandering  in  space,  changing  its  color  and  form  at 
every  moment  as  it  crosses  the  pure  blue  of  the  sky,  can 
alter  every  detail  in  the  widespread  wonderful  landscape  in 
a  thousand  ways,  from  every  point  of  view.  The  eye  em- 
braces first  of  all  the  south  bank  of  the  Loire,  stretching 
away  as  far  as  Amboise,  then  Tours  with  its  suburbs  and 
buildings,  and  the  Plessis  rising  out  of  the  fertile  plain; 
further  away,  between  Vouvray  and  Saint- Symphorien,  you 
see  a  sort  of  crescent  of  gray  cliff  full  of  sunny  vineyards; 
the  only  limits  to  your  view  are  the  low,  rich  hills  along  the 
Cher,  a  bluish  line  of  horizon  broken  by  many  a  chateau 
and  the  wooded  masses  of  many  a  park.  Out  to  the  west  you 


LA  GRENADIERS  24T 

lose  yourself  in  the  immense  river,  where  vessels  come  and 
go,  spreading  their  white  sails  to  the  winds  which  seldom  fail 
them  in  the  wide  Loire  basin.  A  prince  might  build  a  sum- 
mer palace  at  La  Grenadiere,  but  certainly  it  will  always  be 
the  home  of  a  poet's  desire,  and  the  sweetest  of  retreats  for 
two  young  lovers — for  this  vintage  house,  which  belongs  to  a 
substantial  burgess  of  Tours,  has  charms  for  every  imagina- 
tion, for  the  humblest  and  dullest  as  well  as  for  the  most 
impassioned  and  lofty.  No  one  can  dwell  there  without 
feeling  that  happiness  is  in  the  air,  without  a  glimpse  of  all 
that  is  meant  by  a  peaceful  life  without  care  or  ambition. 
There  is  that  in  the  air  and  the  sound  of  the  river  that  sets 
you  dreaming;  the  sands  have  a  language,  and  are  joyous 
or  dreary,  golden  or  wan;  and  the  owner  of  the  vineyard 
may  sit  motionless  amid  perennial  flowers  and  tempting 
fruit,  and  feel  all  the  stir  of  the  world  about  him. 

If  an  Englishman  takes  the  house  for  the  summer,  he  is 
asked  a  thousand  francs  for  six  months,  the  produce  of  the 
vineyard  not  included.  If  the  tenant  wishes  for  the  orchard 
fruit,  the  rent  is  doubled ;  for  the  vintage,  it  is  doubled  again. 
What  can  La  Grenadiere  be  worth,  you  wonder ;  La  Grena- 
diere. with  its  stone  staircase,  its  beaten  path  and  triple  ter- 
race, its  two  acres  of  vineyard,  its  flowering  roses  about  the 
balustrades,  its  worn  steps,  well-head,  rampant  clematis,  and 
cosmopolitan  trees?  It  is  idle  to  make  a  bid!  La  Grena- 
diere will  never  be  in  the  market;  it  was  bought  once  and 
sold,  but  that  was  in  1690;  and  the  owner  parted  with  it 
for  forty  thousand  francs,  reluctant  as  any  Arab  of  the  desert 
to  relinquish  a  favorite  horse.  Since  then  it  has  remained 
in  the  same  family,  its  pride,  its  patrimonial  jewel,  its  Ke- 
gent  diamond.  "While  you  behold,  you  have  and  hold,"  says 
the  bard.  And  from  La  Grenadiere  you  behold  three  valleys 
of  Touraine  and  the  cathedral  towers  aloft  in  air  like  a 
bit  of  filigree  work.  How  can  one  pay  for  such  treasures? 
Could  one  ever  pay  for  the  health  recovered  there  under  the 
linden-trees  ? 

In  the  spring  of  one  of  the  brightest  years  of  the  Kestora- 


248  LA  GRENADIERB 

tion,  a  lady  with  her  housekeeper  and  her  two  children  (the 
oldest  a  boy  thirteen  years  old,  the  youngest  apparently  about 
eight)  came  to  Tours  to  look  for  a  house.  She  saw  La  Grena- 
diere  and  took  it.  Perhaps  the  distance  from  the  town  was 
an  inducement  to  live  there. 

She  made  a  bedroom  of  the  drawing-room,  gave  the  chil- 
dren the  two  rooms  above,  and  the  housekeeper  slept  in  a 
closet  behind  the  kitchen.  The  dining-room  was  sitting- 
room  and  drawing-room  all  in  one  for  the  little  family.  The 
house  was  furnished  very  simply  but  tastefully;  there  was 
nothing  superfluous  in  it,  and  no  trace  of  luxury.  The  wal- 
nut-wood furniture  chosen  by  the  stranger  lady  was  perfectly 
plain,  and  the  whole  charm  of  the  house  consisted  in  its  neat- 
ness and  harmony  with  its  surroundings. 

It  was  rather  difficult,  therefore,  to  say  whether  the 
strange  lady  (Mme.  Willemsens,  as  she  styled  herself)  be- 
longed to  the  upper  middle  or  higher  classes,  or  to  an  equivo- 
cal, unclassified  feminine  species.  Her  plain  dress  gave  rise 
to  the  most  contradictory  suppositions,  but  her  manners 
might  be  held  to  confirm  those  favorable  to  her.  She  had  not 
lived  at  Saint- Cyr,  moreover,  for  very  long  before  her  reserve 
excited  the  curiosity  of  idle  people,  who  always,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  country,  watch  anybody  or  anything  that 
promises  to  bring  some  interest  into  their  narrow  lives. 

Mme.  Willemsens  was  rather  tall;  she  was  thin  and  slen- 
der, but  delicately  shaped.  She  had  pretty  feet,  more  re- 
markable for  the  grace  of  the  instep  and  ankle  than  for  the 
more  ordinary  merit  of  slenderness;  her  gloved  hands,  too, 
were  shapely.  There  were  flitting  patches  of  deep  red  in  a 
pale  face,  which  must  have  been  fresh  and  softly  colored  once. 
Premature  wrinkles  had  withered  the  delicately  modeled 
forehead  beneath  the  coronet  of  soft,  well-set  chestnut  hair, 
invariably  wound  about  her  head  in  two  plaits,  a  girlish 
coiffure  which  suited  the  melancholy  face.  There  was  a  de- 
ceptive look  of  calm  in  the  dark  eyes,  with  the  hollow,  shadowy 
circles  about  them;  sometimes,  when  she  was  off  her  guard, 
their  expression  told  of  secret  anguish.  The  oval  of  her  face 


LA  GRENADIERE  249 

was  somewhat  long;  but  happiness  and  health  had  perhaps 
filled  and  perfected  the  outlines.  A  forced  smile,  full  of 
quiet  sadness,  hovered  continually  on  her  pale  lips ;  -but  when 
the  children,  who  were  always  with  her,  looked  up  at  their 
mother,  or  asked  one  of  the  incessant  idle  questions  which 
convey  so  much  to  a  mother's  ears,  then  the  smile  brightened, 
and  expressed  the  joys  of  a  mother's  love.  Her  gait  was 
slow  and  dignified.  Her  dress  never  varied;  evidently  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  think  no  more  of  her  toilette,  and 
to  forget  a  world  by  which  she  meant  no  doubt  to  be  for- 
gotten. She  wore  a  long,  black  gown,  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  watered-silk  ribbon,  and  by  way  of  scarf  a  lawn  hand- 
kerchief with  a  broad  hem,  the  two  ends  passed  carelessly 
through  her  waistband.  The  instinct  of  dress  showed  itself 
in  that  she  was  daintily  shod,  and  gray  silk  stockings  carried 
out  the  suggestion  of  mourning  in  this  unvarying  costume. 
Lastly,  she  always  wore  a  bonnet  after  the  English  fashion, 
always  of  the  same  shape  arid  the  same  gray  material,  and 
a  black  veil.  Her  health  apparently  was  extremely  weak; 
she  looked  very  ill.  On  fine  evenings  she  would  take  her 
only  walk,  down  to  the  bridge  of  Tours,  bringing  the  two 
children '  with  her  to  breathe  the  fresh,  cool  air  along  the 
Loire,  and  to  watch  the  sunset  effects  on  a  landscape  as  wide 
as  the  Bay  of  Naples  or  the  Lake  of  Geneva. 

During  the  whole  time  of  her  stay  at  La  Grenadiere  she 
went  but  twice  into  Tours;  once  to  call  on  the  headmaster 
of  the  school,  to  ask  him  to  give  her  the  names  of  the  best 
masters  of  Latin,  drawing,  and  mathematics;  and  a  second 
time  to  make  arrangements  for  the  children's  lessons.  But 
her  appearance  on  the  bridge  of  an  evening,  once  or  twice 
a  week,  was  quite  enough  to  excite  the  interest  of  almost  all 
the  inhabitants  of  Tours,  who  make  a  regular  promenade  of 
the  bridge.  Still,  in  spite  of  a  kind  of  spy  system,  by  which  no 
harm  is  meant,  a  provincial  habit  bred  of  want  of  occupation 
and  the  restless  inquisitiveness  of  the  principal  society,  noth- 
ing was  known  for  certain  of  the  newcomer's  rank,  fortune, 
or  real  condition.  Only,  the  owner  of  La  Grenadiere  told 


250  LA  GRENADIERE 

one  or  two  of  his  friends  that  the  name  under  which  the 
stranger  had  signed  the  lease  (her  real  name,  therefore,  in 
all  probability)  was  Augusta  Willemsens,  Countess  of  Bran- 
don. This,  of  course,  must  be  her  husband's  name.  Events, 
which  will  be  narrated  in  their  place,  confirmed  this  revela- 
tion; but  it  went  no  further  than  the  little  world  of  men  of 
business  known  to  the  landlord. 

So  Madame  Willemsens  was  a  continual  mystery  to  people 
of  condition.  Hers  was  no  ordinary  nature;  her  manners 
were  simple  and  delightfully  natural,  the  tones  of  her  voice 
were  divinely  sweet, — this  was  all  that  she  suffered  others 
to  discover.  In  her  complete  seclusion,  her  sadness,  her 
beauty  so  passionately  obscured,  nay,  almost  blighted,  there 
was  so  much  to  charm,  that  several  young  gentlemen  fell  in 
love;  but  the  more  sincere  the  lover,  the  more  timid  he  be- 
came; and  besides,  the  lady  inspired  awe,  and  it  was  a  diffi- 
cult matter  to  find  enough  courage  to  speak  to  her.  Finally, 
if  a  few  of  the  bolder  sort  wrote  to  her,  their  letters  must 
have  been  burned  unread.  It  was  Mme.  Willemsens'  prac- 
tice to  throw  all  the  letters  which  she  received  into  the  fire, 
as  if  she  meant  that  the  time  spent  in  Touraine  should  be 
untroubled  by  any  outside  cares  even  of  the  slightest.  She 
might  have  come  to  the  enchanting  retreat  to  give  herself 
up  wholly  to  the  joy  of  living. 

The  three  masters  whose  presence  was  allowed  at  La  Grena- 
diere  spoke  with  something  like  admiring  reverence  of  the 
touching  picture  that  they  saw  there  of  the  close,  unclouded 
intimacy  of  the  life  led  by  this  woman  and  the  children. 

The  two  little  boys  also  aroused  no  small  interest.  Mothers 
could  not  see  them  without  a  feeling  of  envy.  Both  children 
were  like  Mme.  Willemsens,  who  was,  in  fact,  their  mother. 
They  had  the  transparent  complexion  and  bright  color,  the 
clear,  liquid  eyes,  the  long  lashes,  the  fresh  outlines,  the  daz- 
zling characteristics  of  childish  beauty. 

The  elder,  Louis-Gaston,  had  dark  hair  and  fearless  eyes. 
Everything  about  him  spoke  as  plainly  of  robust,  physical 
health  as  his  broad,  high  brow,  with  its  gracious  curves,  spoke 


LA.  GRENADIERS  251 

of  energy  of  character.  He  was  quick  and  alert  in  his  move- 
ments, and  strong  of  limb,  without  a  trace  of  awkwardness. 
Nothing  took  him  at  unawares,  and  he  seemed  to  think  about 
everything  that  he  saw. 

Marie-Gaston,  the  other  child,  had  hair  that  was  almost 
golden,  though  a  lock  here  and  there  had  deepened  to  the 
mother's  chestnut  tint.  Marie-Gaston  was  slender;  he  had 
the  delicate  features  and  the  subtle  grace  so  charming  in 
Mme.  Willemsens.  He  did  not  look  strong.  There  was  a 
gentle  look  in  his  gray  eyes;  his  face  was  pale,  there 
was  something  feminine  about  the  child.  He  still  wore  his 
hair  in  long,  wavy  curls,  and  his  mother  would  not  have  him 
give  up  embroidered  collars,  and  little  jackets  fastened  with 
frogs  and  spindle-shaped  buttons;  evidently  she  took  a  thor- 
oughly feminine  pleasure  in  the  costume,  a  source  of  as  much 
interest  to  the  mother  as  to  the  child.  The  elder  boy's  plain 
white  collar,  turned  down  over  a  closely  fitting  jacket,  made 
a  contrast  with  his  brother's  clothing,  but  the  color  and  ma- 
terial were  the  same;  the  two  brothers  were  otherwise 
dressed  alike,  and  looked  alike. 

No  one  could  see  them  without  feeling  touched  by  the 
way  in  which  Louis  took  care  of  Marie.  There  was  an 
almost  fatherly  look  in  the  older  boy's  eyes;  and  Marie, 
child  though  he  was,  seemed  to  be  full  of  gratitude  to 
Louis.  They  were  like  two  buds,  scarcely  separated  from  the 
stem  that  bore  them,  swayed  by  the  same  breeze,  lying  in  the 
same  ray  of  sunlight ;  but  the  one  was  a  brightly  colored 
flower,  the  other  somewhat  bleached  and  pale.  At  a  glance, 
a  word,  an  inflection  in  their  mother's  voice,  they  grew  heed- 
ful, turned  to  look  at  her  and  listened,  and  did  at  once  what 
they  were  bidden,  or  asked,  or  recommended  to  do.  Mme. 
Willemsens  had  so  accustomed  them  to  understand  her  wishes 
and  desires,  that  the  three  seemed  to  have  their  thoughts  in 
common.  When  they  went  for  a  walk,  and  the  children,  ab- 
sorbed in  their  play,  ran  away  to  gather  a  flower  or  to  look  at 
some  insect,  she  watched  them  with  such  deep  tenderness  in 
her  eyes,  that  the  most  indifferent  passer-by  would  feel  moved, 


252  LA  GRENADIERE 

and  stop  and  smile  at  the  children,  and  give  the  mother  a 
glance  of  friendly  greeting.  Who  would  not  have  admired  the 
dainty  neatness  of  their  dress,  their  sweet,  childish  voices,  the 
grace  of  their  movements,  the  promise  in  their  faces,  the  in- 
nate something  that  told  of  careful  training  from  the  cradle  ? 
They  seemed  as  if  they  had  never  shed  tears  nor  wailed  like 
other  children.  Their  mother  knew,  as  it  were,  by  elec- 
trically swift  intuition,  the  desires  and  the  pains  which  she 
anticipated  and  relieved.  She  seemed  to  dread  a  complaint 
from  one  of  them  more  than  the  loss  of  her  soul.  Everything 
in  her  children  did  honor  to  their  mother's  training.  Their 
threefold  life,  seemingly  one  life,  called  up  vague,  fond 
thoughts;  it  was  like  a  vision  of  the  dreamed-of  bliss  of  a 
better  world.  And  the  three,  so  attuned  to  each  other,  lived 
in  truth  such  a  life  as  one  might  picture  for  them  at  first 
sight — the  ordered,  simple,  and  regular  life  best  suited  for 
a  child's  education. 

Both  children  rose  an  hour  after  daybreak  and  repeated 
a  short  prayer,  a  habit  learned  in  their  babyhood.  For 
seven  years  the  sincere  petition  had  been  put  up  every  morn- 
ing on  their  mother's  bed,  and  begun  and  ended  by  a  kiss. 
Then  the  two  brothers  went  through  their  morning  toilet 
as  scrupulously  as  any  pretty  woman;  doubtless  they  had 
been  trained  in  habits  of  minute  attention  to  the  person,  so 
necessary  to  health  of  body  and  mind,  habits  in  some  sort 
conducive  to  a  sense  of  wellbeing.  Conscientiously  they  went 
through  their  duties,  so  afraid  were  they  lest  their  mother 
should  say  when  she  kissed  them  at  breakfast-time,  "My 
darling  children,  where  can  you  have  been  to  have  such 
black  finger-nails  already?"  Then  the  two  went  out  into 
the  garden  and  shook  off  the  dreams  of  the  night  in  the 
morning  air  and  dew,  until  sweeping  and  dusting  operations 
were  completed,  and  they  could  learn  their  lessons  in  the 
sitting-room  until  their  mother  joined  them.  But  although 
it  was  understood  that  they  must  not  go  to  their  mother's 
room  before  a  certain  hour,  they  peeped  in  at  the  door  con- 
tinually; and  these  morning  inroads,  made  in  defiance  of 


LA  GRENADIERS  253 

the  original  compact,  were  delicious  moments  for  all  three. 
Marie  sprang  upon  the  bed  to  put  his  arms  about  his  idolized 
mother,  and  Louis,  kneeling  by  the  pillow,  took  her  hand  in 
his.  Then  came  inquiries,  anxious  as  a  lover's,  followed  by 
angelic  laughter,  passionate  childish  kisses,  eloquent  silences, 
lisping  words,  and  the  little  ones'  stories  interrupted  and 
resumed  by  a  kiss,  stories  seldom  finished,  though  the 
listener's  interest  never  failed. 

"Have  you  been  industrious?"  their  mother  would  ask, 
but  in  tones  so  sweet  and  so  kindly  that  she  seemed  ready 
to  pity  laziness  as  a  misfortune,  and  to  glance  through  tears 
at  the  child  who  was  satisfied  with  himself. 

She  knew  that  the  thought  of  pleasing  her  put  energy 
into  the  children's  work;  and  they  knew  that  their  mother 
lived  for  them,  and  that  all  her  thoughts  and  her  time  were 
given  to  them.  A  wonderful  instinct,  neither  selfishness  nor 
reason,  perhaps  the  first  innocent  beginnings  of  sentiment, 
teaches  children  to  know  whether  or  no  they  are  the  first 
and  sole  thought,  to  find  out  those  who  love  to  think  of  them 
and  for  them.  If  you  really  love  children,  the  dear  little 
ones,  with  open  hearts  and  unerring  sense  of  justice,  are  mar- 
velously  ready  to  respond  to  love.  Their  love  knows  passion 
and  jealousy  and  the  most  gracious  delicacy  of  feeling;  they 
find  the  tenderest  words  of  expression;  they  trust  you — put 
an  entire  belief  in  you.  Perhaps  there  are  no  undutiful 
children  without  undutiful  mothers,  for  a  child's  affection 
is  always  in  proportion  to  the  affection  that  it  receives — in 
early  care,  in  the  first  words  that  it  hears,  in  the  response 
of  the  eyes  to  which  a  child  first  looks  for  love  and  life.  All 
these  things  draw  them  closer  to  the  mother  or  drive  them 
apart.  God  lays  the  child  under  the  mother's  heart,  that 
she  may  learn  that  for  a  long  time  to  come  her  heart  must 
be  its  home.  And  yet — there  are  mothers  cruelly  slighted, 
mothers  whose  sublime,  pathetic  tenderness  meets  only  a 
harsh  return,  a  hideous  ingratitude  which  shows  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  lay  down  hard-and-fast  rules  in  matters  of  feel- 
ing. 


254  LA  GRENADIERE 

Here,  not  one  of  all  the  thousand  heart  ties  that  bind  child 
and  mother  had  been  broken.  The  three  were  alone  in  the 
world ;  they  lived  one  life,  a  life  of  close  sympathy.  If  Mme. 
Willemsens  was  silent  in  the  morning,  Louis  and  Marie 
would  not  speak,  respecting  everj^thing  in  her,  even  those 
thoughts  which  they  did  not  share.  But  the  older  boy,  with 
a  precocious  power  of  thought,  would  not  rest  satisfied  with 
his  mother's  assertion  that  she  was  perfectly  well.  He 
scanned  her  face  with  uneasy  forebodings;  the  exact  danger 
he  did  not  know,  but  dimly  he  felt  it  threatening  in  those 
purple  rings  about  her  eyes,  in  the  deepening  hollows  under 
them,  and  the  feverish  red  that  deepened  in  her  face.  If 
Marie's  play  began  to  tire  her,  his  sensitive  tact  was  quick 
to  discover  this,  and  he  would  call  to  h,is  brother: 

"Come,  Marie!  let  us  run  in  to  breakfast,  I  am  hungry!" 

But  when  they  reached  the  door,  he  would  look  back  to 
catch  the  expression  on  his  mother's  face.  She  still  could 
find  a  smile  for  him,  nay,  often  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes 
when  some  little  thing  revealed  her  child's  exquisite  feel- 
ing, a  too  early  comprehension  of  sorrow. 

Mme.  Willemsens  dressed  during  the  children's  early 
breakfast  and  game  of  play,  she  was  coquettish  for  her  dar- 
lings; she  wished  to  be  pleasing  in  their  eyes;  for  them  she 
would  fain  be  in  all  things  lovely,  a  gracious  vision,  with 
the  charm  of  some  sweet  perfume  of  which  one  can  never 
have  enough. 

She  was  always  dressed  in  time  to  hear  their  lessons, 
which  lasted  from  ten  till  three,  with  an  interval  at  noon 
for  lunch,  the  three  taking  the  meal  together  in  the  summer- 
house.  After  lunch  the  children  played  for  an  hour,  while 
she — poor  woman  and  happy  mother — lay  on  a  long  sofa  in 
the  summer-house,  so  placed  that  she  could  look  out  over  the 
soft,  ever-changing  country  of  Touraine,  a  land  that  you 
learn  to  see  afresh  in  all  the  thousand  chance  effects  produced 
by  daylight  and  sky  and  the  time  of  year. 

The  children  scampered  through  the  orchard,  scrambled 
about  the  terraces,  chased  the  lizards,  scarcely  less  nimble 


LA  GRENADIERE  255 

than  they;  investigating  flowers  and  seeds  and  insects,  con- 
tinually referring  all  questions  to  their  mother,  running  to 
and  fro  between  the  garden  and  the  summer-house.  Chil- 
dren have  no  need  of  toys  in  the  country,  everything  amuses 
them. 

Mme.  Willemsens  sat  at  her  embroidery  during  their  les- 
sons. She  never  spoke,  nor  did  she  look  at  masters  or  pupils ; 
but  she  followed  attentively  all  that  was  said,  striving  to 
gather  the  sense  of  the  words  to  gain  a  general  idea  of 
Louis'  progress.  If  Louis  asked  a  question  that  puzzled  his 
master,  his  mother's  eyes  suddenly  lighted  up,  and  she  would 
smile  and  glance  at  him  with  hope  in  her  eyes.  Of  Marie  she 
asked  little.  Her  desire  was  with  her  eldest  son.  Already 
she  treated  him,  as  it  were,  respectfully,  using  all  a  woman's, 
all  a  mother's  tact  to  arouse  the  spirit  of  high  endeavor  in 
the  boy,  to  teach  him  to  think  of  himself  as  capable  of  great 
things.  She  did  this  with  a  secret  purpose,  which  Louis  was 
to  understand  in  the  future;  nay,  he  understood  it  already. 

Always,  the  lesson  over,  she  went  as  far  as  the  gate  with 
the  master,  and  asked  strict  account  of  Louis'  progress.  So 
kindly  and  so  winning  was  her  manner,  that  his  tutors  told 
her  the  truth,  pointing  out  where  Louis  was  weak,  so  that 
she  might  help  him  in  his  lessons.  Then  came  dinner,  and 
play  after  dinner,  then  a  walk,  and  lessons  were  learned  till 
bedtime. 

So  their  da}7s  went.  It  was  a  uniform  but  full  life;  work 
and  amusements  left  them  not  a  dull  hour  in  the  day.  Dis- 
couragement and  quarreling  were  impossible.  The  mother's 
boundless  love  made  everything  smooth.  She  taught  her 
little  sons  moderation  by  refusing  them  nothing,  and  sub- 
mission by  making  them  see  underlying  Necessity  in  its  many 
forms;  she  put  heart  into  them  with  timely  praise;  develop- 
ing and  strengthening  all  that  was  best  in  their  natures  with 
the  care  of  a  good  fairy.  Tears  sometimes  rose  to  her  burn- 
ing eyes  as  she  watched  them  play,  and  thought  how  they 
had  never  caused  her  the  slightest  vexation.  Happiness  so 
far-reaching  and  complete  brings  such  tears,  because  for  ug 


256  LA  GRENADIERS 

it  represents  the  dim  imaginings  of  Heaven  which  we  all  of 
us  form  in  our  minds. 

Those  were  delicious  hours  spent  on  that  sofa  in  the  gar- 
den-house, in  looking  out  on  sunny  days  over  the  wide 
stretches  of  river  and  the  picturesque  landscape,  listening 
to  the  sound  of  her  children's  voices  as  they  laughed  at  their 
own  laughter,  to  the  little  quarrels  that  told  most  plainly 
of  their  union  of  heart,  of  Louis'  paternal  care  of  Marie,  of 
the  love  that  both  of  them  felt  for  her.  They  spoke  Eng- 
lish and  French  equally  well  (they  had  had  an  English  nurse 
since  their  babyhood),  so  their  mother  talked  to  them  in 
both  languages;  directing  the  bent  of  their  childish  minds 
with  admirable  skill,  admitting  no  fallacious  reasoning,  no 
bad  principle.  She  ruled  by  kindness,  concealing  nothing, 
explaining  everything.  If  Louis  wished  for  books,  she  was 
careful  to  give  him  interesting  yet  accurate  books — books  of 
biography,  the  lives  of  great  seamen,  great  captains,  and 
famous  men,  for  little  incidents  in  their  history  gave  her 
numberless  opportunities  of  explaining  the  world  and  life 
to  her  children.  She  would  point  out  the  ways  in  which  men, 
really  great  in  themselves,  had  risen  from  obscurity;  how 
they  had  started  from  the  lowest  ranks  of  society,  with  no 
one  to  look  to  but  themselves,  and  achieved  noble  destinies. 

These  readings,  and  they  were  not  the  least  useful  of 
Louis'  lessons,  took  place  while  little  Marie  slept  on  his 
mother's  knee  in  the  quiet  of  the  summer  night,  and  the 
Loire  reflected  the  sky;  but  when  they  ended,  this  adorable 
woman's  sadness  always  seemed  to  be  doubled;  she  would 
cease  to  speak,  and  sit  motionless  and  pensive,  and  her  eyes 
would  fill  with  tears. 

"Mother,  why  are  you  crying?"  Louis  asked  one  balmy 
June  evening,  just  as  the  twilight  of  a  soft-lit  night  suc- 
ceeded to  a  hot  day. 

Deeply  moved  by  his  trouble,  she  put  her  arm  about  the 
child's  neck  and  drew  him  to  her. 

"Because,  my  boy,  the  lot  of  Jameray  Duval,  the  poor  and 
friendless  lad  who  succeeded  at  last,  will  be  your  lot,  yours 


LA  GRBNADIERE  257 

and  your  brother's,  and  I  have  brought  it  upon  you.  Be- 
fore very  long,  dear  child,  you  will  be  alone  in  the  world, 
with  no  one  to  help  or  befriend  you.  While  you  are  still 
children,  I  shall  leave  you,  and  yet,  if  only  I  could  wait  till 
you  are  big  enough  and  know  enough  to  be  Marie's  guardian ! 
But  I  shall  not  live  so  long.  I  love  you  so  much  that  it 
makes  me  very  unhappy  to  think  of  it.  Dear  children,  if 
only  you  do  not  curse  me  some  day ! — 

"But  why  should  I  curse  you  some  day,  mother?" 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  kissing  him  on  the  forehead,  "you 
will  find  out  that  I  have  wronged  you.  I  am  going  to  leave 
you,  here,  without  money,  without" — here  she  hesitated — 
"without  a  father,"  she  added,  and  at  the  word  she  burst 
into  tears  and  put  the  boy  from  her  gently.  A  sort  of  in- 
tuition told  Louis  that  his  mother  wished  to  be  alone,  and 
he  carried  off  Marie,  now  half  awake.  An  hour  later,  when 
his  brother  was  in  bed,  he  stole  down  and  out  to  the  summer- 
house  where  his  mother  was  sitting. 

"Louis!  come  here." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  tones  delicious  to  his  heart. 
The  bo}'  sprang  to  his  mother's  arms,  and  the  two  held  each 
other  in  an  almost  convulsive  embrace. 

"Cherie,"  he  said  at  last,  the  name  by  which  he  often 
called  her,  finding  that  even  loving  words  were  too  weak  to 
express  his  feeling,  "cherie,  why  are  you  afraid  that  you  are 
going  to  die?" 

"I  am  ill,  my  poor  darling ;  every  day  I  am  losing  strength, 
and  there  is  no  cure  for  my  illness;  I  know  that." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Something  that  I  ought  to  forget;  something  that  you 
must  never  know. — You  must  not  know  what  caused  my 
death." 

The  boy  was  silent  a  while.  He  stole  a  glance  now  and 
again  at  his  mother ;  and  she,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  the  sky, 
was  watching  the  clouds.  It  was  a  sad,  sweet  moment. 
Louis  could  not  believe  that  his  mother  would  die  soon,  but 
instinctively  he  felt  trouble  which  he  could  not  guess.  He 
VOL.  5—41 


258  L.A  GRENADIERS 

respected  her  long  musings.  If  he  had  been  rather  older, 
he  would  have  read  happy  memories  blended  with  thoughts 
of  repentance,  the  whole  story  of  a  woman's  life  in  that  sub- 
lime face — the  careless  childhood,  the  loveless  marriage,  a 
terrible  passion,  flowers  springing  up  in  storm  and  struck 
down  by  the  thunderbolt  into  an  abyss  from  which  there  is 
no  return. 

"Darling  mother/'  Louis  said  at  last,  "why  do  you  hide 
your  pain  from  me?" 

"My  boy,  we  ought  to  hide  our  troubles  from  strangers," 
she  said;  "we  should  show  them  a  smiling  face,  never  speak 
of  ourselves  to  them,  nor  think  about  ourselves;  and  these 
rules,  put  in  practice  in  family  life,  conduce  to  its  happiness. 
You  will  have  much  to  bear  one  day !  Ah  me !  then 
think  of  your  poor  mother  who  died  smiling  before  your 
eyes,  hiding  her  sufferings  from  you,  and  you  will  take 
courage  to  endure  the  ills  of  life." 

She  choked  back  her  tears,  and  tried  to  make  the  boy  un- 
derstand the  mechanism  of  existence,  the  value  of  money, 
the  standing  and  consideration  that  it  gives,  and  its  bearing 
on  social  position;  the  honorable  means  of  gaining  a  liveli- 
hood, and  the  necessity  of  a  training.  Then  she  told  him 
that  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  her  sadness  and  her  tears  was 
the  thought  that,  on  the  morrow  of  her  death,  he  and  Marie 
would  be  left  almost  resourceless,  with  but  a  slender  stock 
of  money,  and  no  friend  but  God. 

"How  quick  I  must  be  about  learning!"  cried  Louis,  giv- 
ing her  a  piteous,  searching  look. 

"Oh !  how  happy  I  am !"  she  said,  showering  kisses  and 
tears  on  her  son.  "He  understands  me ! — Louis,"  she  went  on, 
"you  will  be  your  brother's  guardian,  will  you  not?  You 
promise  me  that?  You  are  no  longer  a  child!" 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  he  said ;  "but  you  .are  not  going  to  die 
yet — say  that  you  are  not  going  to  die !" 

"Poor  little  ones!"  she  replied,  "love  for  you  keeps  the 
life  in  me.  And  this  country  is  so  sunny,  the  air  is  so  brac- 
ing, perhaps " 


LA  GRENADIERE  258 

"You  make  me  love  Touraine  more  than  ever,"  said  the 
child. 

From  that  day,  when  Mine.  Willemsens,  foreseeing  the 
approach  of  death,  spoke  to  Louis  of  his  future,  he  concen- 
trated his  attention  on  his  work,  grew  more  industrious,  and 
less  inclined  to  play  than  heretofore.  When  he  had  coaxed 
Marie  to  read  a  book  and  to  give  up  boisterous  games,  there 
was  less  noise  in  the  hollow  pathways  and  gardens  and  ter- 
raced walks  of  La  Grenadiere.  They  adapted  their  lives  to 
their  mother's  melancholy.  Day  by  day  her  face  was  grow- 
ing pale  and  wan,  there  were  hollows  now  in  her  temples, 
the  lines  in  her  forehead  grew  deeper  night  after  night. 

August  came.  The  little  family  had  been  five  months  at 
La  Grenadiere,  and  their  whole  life  was  changed.  The  old 
servant  grew  anxious  and  gloomy  as  she  watched  the  almost 
imperceptible  symptoms  of  slow  decline  in  the  mistress,  who 
seemed  to  be  kept  in  life  by  an  impassioned  soul  and  intense 
love  of  her  children.  Old  Annette  seemed  to  see  that  death 
was  very  near.  That  mistress,  beautiful  still,  was  more  care- 
ful of  her  appearance  than  she  had  ever  been;  she  was  at 
pains  to  adorn  her  wasted  self,  and  wore  paint  on  her  cheeks ; 
but  often  while  she  walked  on  the  upper  terrace  with  the 
children,  Annette's  wrinkled  face  would  peer  out  from  be- 
tween the  savin  trees  by  the  pump.  The  old  woman  would 
forget  her  work,  and  stand  with  the  wet  linen  in  her  hands, 
scarce  able  to  keep  back  her  tears  at  the  sight  of  Mme.  Wil- 
lemsens', so  little  like  the  enchanting  woman  she  once  had 
been. 

The  pretty  house  itself,  once  so  gay  and  bright,  looked 
melancholy;  it  was  a  very  quiet  house  now,  and  the  family 
seldom  left  it,  for  the  walk  to  the  bridge  was  too  great  an 
effort  for  Mme.  Willemsens.  Louis  had  almost  identified 
himself,  as  it  were,  with  his  mother,  and  with  his  suddenly 
developed  powers  of  imagination  he  saw  the  weariness  and 
exhaustion  under  the  red  color,  and  constantly  found  rea- 
sons for  taking  some  shorter  walk. 

So  happy  couples  coming  to  Saint-Cyr,  then  the  Petite 


260  LA  GRENADIERE 

Courtille  of  Tours,  and  knots  of  folk  out  for  their  evening 
walk  along  the  "dike,"  saw  a  pale,  thin  figure  dressed  in 
black,  a  woman  with  a  worn  yet  bright  face,  gliding  like  a 
shadow  along  the  terraces.  Great  suffering  cannot  be  con- 
cealed. The  vinedresser's  household  had  grown  quiet  also. 
Sometimes  the  laborer  and  his  wife  and  children  were  gath- 
ered about  the  door  of  their  cottage,  while  Annette  was 
washing  linen  at  the  well-head,  and  Mme.  Willemsens  and 
the  children  sat  in  the  summer-house,  and  there  was  not  the 
faintest  sound  in  those  gardens  gay  with  flowers.  Unknown 
to  Mme.  Willemsens,  all  eyes  grew  pitiful  at  the  sight  of 
her,  she  was  so  good,  so  thoughtful,  so  dignified  with  those 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 

And  as  for  her. — When  the  autumn  days  came  on,  days  so 
sunny  and  bright  in  Touraine,  bringing  with  them  grapes 
and  ripe  fruits  and  healthful  influences  which  must  surely 
prolong  life  in  spite  of  the  ravages  of  mysterious  disease — 
she  saw  no  one  but  her  children,  taking  the  utmost  that  the 
hour  could  give  her,  as  if  each  hour  had  been  her  last. 

Louis  had  worked  at  night,  unknown  to  his  mother,  and 
made  immense  progress  between  June  and  September.  In 
algebra  he  had  come  as  far  as  equations  with  two  unknown 
quantities;  he  had  studied  descriptive  geometry,  and  drew 
admirably  well;  in  fact,  he  was  prepared  to  pass  the  en- 
trance examination  of  the  Ecole  polytechnique. 

Sometimes  of  an  evening  he  went  down  to  the  bridge  of 
Tours.  There  was  a  lieutenant  there  on  half-pay,  an  Im- 
perial naval  officer,  whose  manly  face,  medal,  and  gait  had 
made  an  impression  on  the  boy's  imagination,  and  the  officer 
on  his  side  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  lad,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  with  energy.  Louis,  hungering  for  tales  of  adven- 
ture, and  eager  for  information,  used  to  follow  in  the  lieu- 
tenant's wake  for  the  chance  of  a  chat  with  him.  It  so 
happened  that  the  sailor  had  a  friend  and  comrade  in  the 
colonel  of  a  regiment  of  infantry,  struck  off  the  rolls  like 
himself;  and  young  Louis-Gaston  had  a  chance  of  learning 
what  life  was  like  in  camp  or  on  board  a  man-of-war.  01 


LA  GRENADIERB  261 

course,  he  plied  the  veterans  with  questions;  and  when  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  hardships  of  their  rough  call- 
ings, he  asked  his  mother's  leave  to  take  country  walks  by 
way  of  amusement.  Mme.  Willemsens  was  beyond  measure 
glad  that  he  should  ask;  the  boy's  astonished  masters  had 
told  her  that  he  was  overworking  himself.  So  Louis  went 
for  long  walks.  He  tried  to  inure  himself  to  fatigue, 
climbed  the  tallest  trees  with  incredible  quickness,  learned  to 
swim,  watched  through  the  night.  He  was  not  like  the 
same  boy;  he  was  a  young  man  already,  with  a  sunburned 
face,  and  a  something  in  his  expression  that  told  of  deep  pur- 
pose. 

When  October  came,  Mme.  Willemsens  could  only  rise  at 
noon.  The  sunshine,  reflected  by  the  surface  of  the  Loire, 
and  stored  up  by  the  rocks,  raised  the  temperature  of  the 
air  till  it  was  almost  as  warm  and  soft  as  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  for  which  reason  the  faculty  recom- 
mend the  place  of  abode.  At  mid-day  she  came  out  to  sit 
under  the  shade  of  green  leaves  with  the  two  boys,  who  never 
wandered  from  her  now.  Lessons  had  come  to  an  end. 
Mother  and  children  wished  to  live  the  life  of  heart  and 
heart  together,  with  no  disturbing  element,  no  outside  cares. 
No  tears  now,  no  joyous  outcries.  The  elder  boy,  lying  in 
the  grass  at  his  mother's  side,  basked  in  her  eyes  like  a  lover, 
and  kissed  her  feet.  Marie,  the  restless  one,  gathered  flowers 
for  her,  and  brought  them  with  a  subdued  look,  standing  on 
tiptoe  to  put  a  girlish  kiss  on  her  lips.  And  the  pale  woman, 
with  the  great  tired  eyes  and  languid  movements,  never  ut- 
tered a  word  of  complaint,  and  smiled  upon  her  children, 
so  full  of  life  and  health — it  was  a  sublime  picture,  lacking 
no  melancholy  autumn  pomp  of  yellow  leaves  and  half-de- 
gpoiled  branches,  nor  the  softened  sunlight  and  pale  clouds 
of  the  skies  of  Touraine. 

At  last  the  doctor  forbade  Mme.  Willemsens  to  leave  her 
room.  Every  day  it  was  brightened  by  the  flowers  that  she 
loved,  and  her  children  were  always  with  her.  One  day,  early 
in  November,  she  sat  at  the  piano  for  the  last  time.  A  pict- 


262  LA  GRENADIERS 

ure — a  Swiss  landscape — hung  above  the  instrument;  and  at 
the  window  she  could  see  her  children  standing  with  their 
heads  close  together.  Again  and  again  she  looked  from  the 
children  to  the  landscape,  and  then  again  at  the  children. 
Her  face  flushed,  her  fingers  flew  with  passionate  feeling 
over  the  ivory  keys.  This  was  her  last  great  day,  an  un- 
marked day  of  festival,  held  in  her  own  soul  by  the  spirit  of 
her  memories.  When  the  doctor  came,  he  ordered  her  to 
stay  in  bed.  The  alarming  dictum  was  received  with  be- 
wildered silence. 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  she  turned  to  the  older  boy. 

"Louis,"  she  said,  "take  me  .out  on  the  terrace,  so  that  I 
may  see  my  country  once  more." 

The  boy  gave  his  arm  at  those  simply  uttered  words, 
and  brought  his  mother  out  upon  the  terrace;  but  her  eyes 
turned,  perhaps  unconsciously,  to  heaven  rather  than  to  the 
earth,  and,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say  whether 
heaven  or  earth  was  the  fairer — for  the  clouds  traced  shadowy 
outlines,  like  the  grandest  Alpine  glaciers,  against  the  sky. 
Mme.  Willemsens'  brows  contracted  vehemently;  there  was 
a  look  of  anguish  and  remorse  in  her  eyes.  She  caught  the 
children's  hands,  and  clutched  them  to  a  heavily-throbbing 
heart. 

"  'Parentage  unknown !' "  she  cried,  with  a  look  that  went 
to  their  hearts.  "Poor  angels,  what  will  become  of  you? 
And  when  you  are  twenty  years  old,  what  strict  account 
may  you  not  require  of  my  life  and  your  own?" 

She  put  the  children  from  her,  and  leaning  her  arms  upon 
the  balustrade,  stood  for  a  while  hiding  her  face,  alone  with 
herself,  fearful  of  all  eyes.  When  she  recovered  from  the 
paroxysm,  she  saw  Louis  and  Marie  kneeling  on  either  side 
of  her,  like  two  angels;  they  watched  the  expression  of  her 
face,  and  smiled  lovingly  at  her. 

"If  only  I  could  take  that  smile  with  me !"  she  said,  dvy- 
ing  her  eyes. 

Then  she  went  into  the  house  and  took  to  the  bed, 
she  would  only  leave  for  her  coffin. 


LA  GRENADIERB  203 

A  week  went  by,  one  day  exactly  like  another.  Old  An- 
nette and  Louis  took  it  in  turns  to  sit  up  with  Mme.  Wil- 
lemsens,  never  taking  their  eyes  from  the  invalid.  It  was 
the  deeply  tragical  hour  that  comes  in  all  our  lives,  the  hour 
of  listening  in  terror  to  every  deep  breath  lest  it  should  be 
the  last,  a  dark  hour  protracted  over  many  days.  On  the 
fifth  day  of  that  fatal  week  the  doctor  interdicted  flowers 
in  the  room.  The  illusions  of  life  were  going  one  by  one. 

Then  Marie  and  his  brother  felt  their  mother's  lips  hot 
as  fire  beneath  their  kisses;  and  at  last,  on  the  Saturday 
evening,  Mme.  Willemsens  was  too  ill  to  bear  the  slightest 
sound,  and  her  room  as  left  in  disorder.  This  neglect  for 
a  woman  of  refined  taste,  who  clung  so  persistently  to  the 
graces  of  life,  meant  the  beginning  of  the  death-agony. 
After  this,  Louis  refused  to  leave  his  mother.  On  Sunday 
night,  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest  silence,  when  Louis 
thought  that  she  had  grown  drowsy,  he  saw  a  white,  moist 
hand  move  the  curtain  in  the  lamplight. 

"My  son  I"  she  said.  There  was  something  so  solemn  in 
the  dying  woman's  tones,  that  the  power  of  her  wrought-up 
soul  produced  a  violent  reaction  on  the  boy;  he  felt  an  in- 
tense heat  pass  through  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 

"What  is  it,  mother?" 

"Listen !  To-morrow  all  will  be  over  for  me.  We  shall 
see  each  other  no  more.  To-morrow  you  will  be  a  man,  my 
child.  So  I  am  obliged  to  make  some  arrangements,  which 
must  remain  a  secret,  known  only  to  us.  Take  the  key  of 
my  little  table.  That  is  it.  Now  open  the  drawer.  You 
will  find  two  sealed  papers  to  the  left.  There  is  the  name  of 
Louis  on  one,  and  on  the  other  MARIE." 

"Here  they  are,  mother." 

"Those  are  your  certificates  of  birth,  darling;  you  will 
want  them.  Give  them  to  our  poor,  old  Annette  to  keep  for 
you ;  ask  her  for  them  when  you  need  them.  Now,"  she  con- 
tinued, "is  there  not  another  paper  as  well,  something  in  my 
handwriting  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  and  Louis  began  to  read,  "Marie  Willem- 
sens,  born  at " 


264  LA  GRENADIER^ 

"That  is  enough,"  she  broke  in  quickly,  "do  not  go  on. 
When  I  am  dead,  give  that  paper,  too,  to  Annette,  and  tell 
her  to  send  it  to  the  registrar  at  Saint-Cyr;  it  will  be  wanted 
if  my  certificate  of  death  is  to  be  made  out  in  due  form.  Now 
find  writing  materials  for  a  letter  which  I  will  dictate  to 
you." 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  ready  to  begin,  and  turned  to- 
wards her  for  the  words,  they  came  from  her  quietly: — 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,  your  wife,  Lady  Brandon,  died  at 
Saint-Cyr,  near  Tours,  in  the  department  of  Indre-et-Loire. 
She  forgave  you." 

"Sign  yourself "  she  stopped,  hesitating  and  per- 
turbed. 

"Are  you  feeling  worse?"  asked  Louis. 

"Put  *Louis-Gaston,' "  she  said. 

She  sighed,  then  she  went  on. 

"Seal  the  letter,  and  direct  it.  To  Lord  Brandon,  Bran- 
don Square,  Hyde  Park,  London,  Angleterre. — That  is  right. 
When  I  am  dead,  post  the  letter  in  Tours,  and  prepay  the 
postage. — Now,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "take  the  little 
pocketbook  that  you  know,  and  come  here,  my  dear  child. 
.  .  .  There  are  twelve  thousand  francs  in  it,"  she  said, 
when  Louis  had  returned  to  her  side.  "That  is  all  your  own. 
Oh  me !  you  would  have  been  better  off  if  your  father — 

"My  father,"  cried  the  boy,  "where  is  he?" 

"He  is  dead,"  she  said,  laying  her  finger  on  her  lips;  "he 
died  to  save  my  honor  and  my  life." 

She  looked  upwards.  If  any  tears  had  been  left  to  her, 
she  could  have  wept  for  pain. 

"Louis,"  she  continued,  "swear  to  me,  as  I  lie  here,  that 
you  will  forget  all  that  you  have  written,  all  that  I  have  told 
you." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Kiss  me,  dear  angel." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  while,  she  seemed  to  be  drawing 


LA  GRENADIERE  265 

strength  from  God,  and  to  be  measuring  her  words  by  the 
life  that  remained  in  her. 

"Listen,"  she  began.  "Those  twelve  thousand  francs  are 
all  that  you  have  in  the  world.  You  must  keep  the  money 
upon  you,  because  when  I  am  dead  the  lawyers  will  come  and 
seal  everything  up.  Nothing  will  be  yours  then,  not  even 
your  mother.  All  that  remains  for  you  to  do  will  be  to  go 
out,  poor  orphan  children,  God  knows  where.  I  have  made 
Annette's  future  secure.  She  will  have  an  annuity  of  a  hun- 
dred crowns,  and  she  will  stay  at  Tours  no  doubt.  But  what 
will  you  do  for  yourself  and  your  brother?" 

She  raised  herself,  and  looked  at  the  brave  child,  standing 
by  her  bedside.  There  were  drops  of  perspiration  on  his 
forehead,  he  was  pale  with  emotion,  and  his  eyes  were  dim 
with  tears. 

"I  have  thought  it  over,  mother,"  he  answered  in  a  deep 
voice.  "I  will  take  Marie  to  the  school  here  in  Tours.  I 
will  give  ten  thousand  francs  to  our  old  Annette,  and  ask 
her  to  take  care  of  them,  and  to  look  after  Marie.  Then, 
with  the  remaining  two  thousand  francs,  I  will  go  to  Brest, 
and  go  to  sea  as  an  apprentice.  While  Marie  is  at  school, 
I  will  rise  to  be  a  lieutenant  on  board  a  man-of-war.  There, 
after  all,  die  in  peace,  rny  mother;  I  shall  come  back  again 
a  rich  man,  and  our  little  one  shall  go  to  the  Ecole  poly- 
technique,  and  I  will  find  a  career  to  suit  his  bent." 

A  gleam  of  joy  shone  in  the  dying  woman's  eyes.  Two 
tears  brimmed  over,  and  fell  over  her  fevered  cheeks;  then 
a  deep  sigh  escaped  between  her  lips.  The  sudden  joy 
of  finding  the  father's  spirit  in  the  son,  who  had  grown  all 
at  once  to  be  a  man,  almost  killed  her. 

"Angel  of  heaven,"  she  cried,  weeping,  "by  one  word  you 
have  effaced  all  my  sorrows.  Ah !  I  can  bear  them.— This  is 
my  son,"  she  said,  "I  bore,  I  reared  this  man,"  and  she 
raised  her  hands  above  her,  and  clasped  them  as  if  in  ec- 
stasy, then  she  lay  back  on  the  pillow. 

"Mother,  your  face  is  growing  pale !"  cried  the  lad. 

"Some  one  must  go  for  a  priest,'-"  she  answered,  with  a 
dying  voice. 

v  •  --y 


2(56  LA  GREXADIERE 

Louis  wakened  Annette,  and  the  terrified  old  woman  hur- 
ried to  the  parsonage  at  Saint-Cyr. 

When  morning  came,  Mme.  Willemsens  received  the  sacra- 
ment amid  the  most  touching  surroundings.  Her  children 
were  kneeling  in  the  room,  with  Annette  and  the  vine- 
dresser's family,  simple  folk,  who  had  already  become  part 
of  the  household.  The  silver  crucifix,  carried  by  a  chorister, 
a  peasant  child  from  the  village,  was  lifted  up,  and  the 
dying  mother  received  the  Viaticum  from  an  aged  priest.  The 
Viaticum !  sublime  word,  containing  an  idea  yet  more  sub- 
lime, an  idea  only  possessed  by  the  apostolic  religion  of  the 
Roman  church. 

"This  woman  has  suffered  greatly !"  the  old  cure  said  in 
his  simple  way. 

Marif  Willemsens  heard  no  voices  now,  but  her  eyes  were 
still  fixed  upon  her  children.  Those  about  her  listened  in 
terror  to  her  breathing  in  the  deep  silence;  already  it  came 
more  slowly,  though  at  intervals  a  deep  sigh  told  them  that 
she  still  lived,  and  of  a  struggle  within  her;  then  at  last  it 
ceased.  Every  one  burst  into  tears  except  Marie.  He,  poor 
child,  was  still  too  young  to  know  what  death  meant. 

Annette  and  the  vinedresser's  wife  closed  the  eyes  of  the 
adorable  woman,  whose  beauty  shone  out  in  all  its  radiance 
after  death.  Then  the  women  took  possession  of  the  chamber 
of  death,  removed  the  furniture,  wrapped  the  dead  in  her 
winding-sheet,  and  laid  her  upon  the  couch.  They  lit  tapers 
about  her,  and  arranged  everything — the  crucifix,  the  sprigs 
of  box,  and  the  holy-water  stoup — after  the  custom  of  the 
countryside,  bolting  the  shutters  and  drawing  the  curtains. 
Later  the  curate  came  to  pass  the  night  in  prayer  with  Louis, 
who  refused  to  leave  his  mother.  On  Tuesday  morning  an 
old  woman  and  two  children  and  a  vinedresser's  wife  fol- 
lowed the  dead  to  her  grave.  These  were  the  only  mourners. 
Yet  this  was  a  woman  whose  wit  and  beauty  and  charm  had 
won  a  European  reputation,  a  woman  whose  funeral,  if  it  had 
taken  place  in  London,  would  have  been  recorded  in  pompous 
newspaper  paragraphs,  as  a  sort  of  aristocratic  rite,  if  she 


L.A  GRENADIERE  267 

had  not  committed  the  sweetest  of  crimes,  a  crime  always 
expiated  in  this  world,  so  that  the  pardoned  spirit  may 
enter  heaven.  Marie  cried  when  they  threw  the  earth  on 
his  mother's  coffin;  he  understood  that  he  should  see  her 
no  more. 

A  simple,  wooden  cross,  set  up  to  mark  her  grave,  bore 
this  inscription,  due  to  the  cure  of  Saint-Cyr: — 

HERE  LIES 

AN  UNHAPPY  WOMAN, 

WHO    DIED    AT    THE    AGE    OF    THIRTY-SIX. 
KNOWN   IN   HEAVEN   BY   THE   NAME   OF  AUGUSTA. 

Pray  for  her! 

When  all  was  over,  the  children  came  back  to  La  Grena- 
diere  to  take  a  last  look  at  their  home;  then,  hand  in  hand, 
they  turned  to  go  with  Annette,  leaving  the  vinedresser  in 
charge,  with  directions  to  hand  over  everything  duly  to  the 
proper  authorities. 

At  this  moment,  Annette  called  to  Louis  from  the  steps 
by  the  kitchen  door,  and  took  him  aside  with,  "Here  is  ma- 
dame's  ring,  Monsieur  Louis." 

The  sight  of  this  vivid  remembrance  of  his  dead  mother 
moved  him  so  deeply  that  he  wept.  In  his  fortitude,  he 
had  not  even  thought  of  this  supreme  piety ;  and  he  flung  his 
arms  round  the  old  woman's  neck.  Then  the  three  set 
out  down  the  beaten  path,  and  the  stone  staircase,  and  so 
to  Tours,  without  turning  their  heads. 

"Mamma  used  to  come  there !"  Marie  said  when  they 
reached  the  bridge. 

Annette  had  a  relative,  a  retired  dressmaker,  who  lived  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Guerche.  She  took  the  two  children  to  this 
cousin's  house,  meaning  that  they  should  live  together 


268  LA  GRENADIERE 

thenceforth.  But  Louis  told  her  of  his  plans,  gave  Marie's 
certificate  of  birth  and  the  ten  thousand  francs  into  her 
keeping,  and  the  two  went  the  next  morning  to  take  Marie 
to  school. 

Louis  very  briefly  explained  his  position  to  the  headmaster, 
and  went.  Marie  came  with  him  as  far  as  the  gateway. 
There  Louis  gave  solemn  parting  words  of  the  tenderest  coun- 
sel, telling  Marie  that  he  would  now  be  left  alone  in  the 
world.  He  looked  at  his  brother  for  a  moment,  and  put  his 
arms  about  him,  took  one  more  long  look,  brushed  a  tear 
from  his  eyes,  and  went,  turning  again  and  again  till  the 
very  last  to  see  his  brother  standing  there  in  the  gateway  of 
the  school. 

A  month  later  Louis-Gaston,  now  an  apprentice  on  board 
a  man-of-war,  left  the  harbor  of  Rochefort.  Leaning  over 
the  bulwarks  of  the  corvette  Iris,  he  watched  the  coast  of 
France  receding  swiftly  till  it  became  indistinguishable  from 
the  faint  blue  horizon  line.  In  a  little  while  he  felt  that  he 
was  really  alone,  and  lost  in  the  wide  ocean,  lost  and  alone 
in  the  world  and  in  life. 

"There  is  no  need  to  cry,  lad;  there  is  a  God  for  us  all," 
said  an  old  sailor,  with  rough  kindliness  in  his  thick  voice. 

The  boy  thanked  him  with  pride  in  his  eyes.  Then  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  resigned  himself  to  a  sailor's  life.  He 
was  a  father. 

ANGOULfisiE,  August  1832. 


THE  MESSAGE 

To  M.  le  Marquis  Damaso  Pareto. 

I  HAVE  always  longed  to  tell  a  simple  and  true  story,  which 
should  strike  terror  into  two  young  lovers,  and  drive  them 
to  take  refuge  each  in  the  other's  heart,  as  two  children  cling 
together  at  the  sight  of  a  snake  by  a  woodside.  At  the  risk 
of  spoiling  my  story  and  of  being  taken  for  a  coxcomb,  I 
state  my  intention  at  the  outset. 

I  myself  played  a  part  in  this  almost  commonplace  trag- 
edy; so  if  it  fails  to  interest  you,  the  failure  will  be  in  part 
my  own  fault,  in  part  owing  to  historical  veracity.  Plenty  of 
things  in  real  life  are  superlatively  uninteresting;  so  that 
it  is  one-half  of  art  to  select  from  realities  those  which  con- 
tain possibilities  of  poetry. 

In  1819  I  was  traveling  from  Paris  to  Moulins.  The  state 
of  my  finances  obliged  me  to  take  an  outside  place.  Eng- 
lishmen, as  you  know,  regard  those  airy  perches  on  the  top 
of  the  coach  as  the  best  seats;  and  for  the  first  few  miles 
1  discovered  abundance  of  excellent  reasons  for  justifying 
the  opinion  of  our  neighbors.  A  young  fellow,  apparently 
in  somewhat  better  circumstances,  who  came  to  take  the  seat 
beside  me  from  preference,  listened  to  my  reasoning  with  in- 
offensive smiles.  An  approximate  nearness  of  age,  a  simi- 
larity in  ways  of  thinking,  a  common  love  of  fresh  air,  and 
of  the  rich  landscape  scenery  through  which  the  coach  was 
lumbering  along, — these  things,  together  with  an  indescrib- 
able magnetic  something,  drew  us  before  long  into  one  of 
those  short-lived  traveler's  intimacies,  in  which  we  unbend 
with  the  more  complacency  because  the  intercourse  is  by  its 
very  nature  transient,  and  makes  no  implicit  demands  upon 
the  future. 


270  THE  MESSAGE 

We  had  not  come  thirty  leagues  before  we  were  talking  of 
women  and  of  love.  Then,  with  all  the  circumspection  de- 
manded in  such  matters,  we  proceeded  naturally  to  the  topic 
of  our  lady-loves.  Young  as  we  both  were,  we  still  admired 
"the  woman  of  a  certain  age,"  that  is  to  say,  the  woman  be- 
tween thirty-five  and  forty.  Oh !  any  poet  who  should  have 
listened  to  our  talk,  for  heaven  knows  how  many  stages  be- 
yond Montargis,  would  have  reaped  a  harvest  of  naming 
epithet,  rapturous  description,  and  very  tender  confidences. 
Our  bashful  fears,  our  silent  interjections,  our  blushes,  as 
we  met  each  other's  eyes,  were  expressive  with  an  eloquence, 
a  boyish  charm,  which  I  have  ceased  to  feel.  One  must  re- 
main young,  no  doubt,  to  understand  youth. 

Well,  we  understood  one  another  to  admiration  on  all  the 
essential  points  of  passion.  We  had  laid  it  down  as  an 
axiom  at  the  very  outset,  that  in  theory  and  practice  there 
was  no  such  piece  of  driveling  nonsense  in  this  world  as  a 
certificate  of  birth ;  that  plenty  of  women  were  younger 
at  forty  than  many  a  girl  of  twenty;  and,  to  come  to  the 
point,  that  a  woman  is  no  older  than  she  looks. 

This  theory  set  no  limits  to  the  age  of  love,  so  we  struck 
out,  in  all  good  faith,  into  a  boundless  sea.  At  length,  when 
we  had  portrayed  our  mistresses  as  young,  charming,  and 
devoted  to  us,  women  of  rank,  women  of  taste,  intellectual 
and  clever;  when  we  had  endowed  them  with  little  feet,  a 
satin,  nay,  a  delicately  fragrant  skin,  then  came  the  ad- 
mission— on  his  part  that  Madame  Such-an-one  was  thirty- 
eight  years  old,  and  on  mine  that  I  worshiped  a  woman  of 
forty.  Whereupon,  as  if  released  on  either  side  from  some 
kind  of  vague  fear,  our  confidences  came  thick  and  fast, 
when  we  found  that  we  were  of  the  same  confraternity  of 
love.  It  was  which  of  us  should  overtop  the  other  in  senti- 
ment. 

One  of  us  had  traveled  six  hundred  miles  to  see  his  mis- 
tress for  an  hour.  The  other,  at  the  risk  of  being  shot  for 
a  wolf,  had  prowled  about  her  park  to  meet  her  one  night. 
Out  came  all  our  follies  in  fact.  If  it  is  pleasant  to  re- 


THE  MESSAGE  271 

member  past  dangers,  is  it  not.  at  least  as  pleasant  to  re- 
call past  delights?  We  live  through  the  joy  a  second  time. 
We  told  each  other  everything,  our  perils,  our  great  joys, 
our  little  pleasures,  and  even  the  humors  of  the  situation. 
My  friend's  countess  had  lighted  -a  cigar  for  him;  mine 
made  chocolate  for  me,  and  wrote  to  me  every  day  when 
we  did  not  meet;  his  lady  had  come  to  spend  three  days 
with  him  at  the  risk  of  ruin  to  her  reputation;  mine  had 
done  even  better,  or  worse,  if  you  will  have  it  so.  Our  count- 
esses, moreover,  were  adored  by  their  husbands;  these  gen- 
tlemen were  enslaved  by  the  charm  possessed  by  every  woman 
who  loves ;  and,  with  even  supererogatory  simplicity,  afforded 
us  that  just  sufficient  spice  of  danger  which  increases  pleasure. 
Ah !  how  quickly  the  wind  swept  away  our  talk  and  our 
happy  laughter! 

When  we  reached  Pouilly,  I  scanned  my  new  friend  with 
much  interest,  and  truly,  it  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  him 
the  hero  of  a  very  serious  love  affair.  Picture  to  yourselves 
a  young  man  of  middle  height,  but  very  well  proportioned, 
a  bright,  expressive  face,  dark  hair,  blue  eyes,  moist  lips, 
and  white  and  even  teeth.  A  certain  not  unbecoming  pallor 
still  overspread  his  delicately  cut  features,  and  there  were 
faint  dark  circles  about  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  recovering 
from  an  illness.  Add,  furthermore,  that  he  had  white  and 
shapely  hands,  of  which  he  was  as  careful  as  a  pretty  woman 
should  be;  add  that  he  seemed  to  be  very  well  informed, 
and  was  decidedly  clever,  and  it  should  not  be  difficult  for 
you  to  imagine  that  my  traveling  companion  was  more  than 
worthy  of  a  countess.  Indeed,  many  a  girl  might  have 
wished  for  such  a  husband,  for  he  was  a  Vicomte  with  an  in- 
come of  twelve  or  fifteen  thousand  livres,  "to  say  nothing  of 
expectations." 

About  a  league  out  of  Pouilly  the  coach  was  overturned. 
My  luckless  comrade,  thinking  to  save  himself,  jumped  to 
the  edge  of  a  newly-ploughed  field,  instead  of  following  the 
fortunes  of  the  vehicle  and  clinging  tightly  to  the  roof,  as  I 
did.  He  either  miscalculated  in  some  way,  or  he  slipped; 


272  THE  MESSAGE 

how  it  happened,  I  do  not  know,  but  the  coach  fell  over  upon 
him,  and  he  was  crushed  under  it. 

We  carried  him  into  a  peasant's  cottage,  and  there,  amid 
the  moans  wrung  from  him  by  horrible  sufferings,  he  con- 
trived to  give  me  a  commission — a  sacred  task,  in  that  it  was 
laid  upon  me  by  a  dying  man's  last  wish.  Poor  boy,  all 
through  his  agony  he  was  torturing  himself  in  his  young  sim- 
plicity of  heart  with  the  thought  of  the  painful  shock  to  his 
mistress  when  she  should  suddenly  read  of  his  death  in  a 
newspaper.  He  begged  me  to  go  myself  to  break  the  news 
to  her.  He  bade  me  look  for  a  key  which  he  wore  on  a 
ribbon  about  his  neck.  I  found  it  half  buried  in  the  flesh, 
but  the  dying  boy  did  not  utter  a  sound  as  I  extricated  it 
as  gently  as  possible  from  the  wound  which  it  had  made. 
He  had  scarcely  given  me  the  necessary  directions — I  was 
to  go  to  his  home  at  La  Charite-sur-Loire  for  his  mistress' 
love-letters,  which  he  conjured  me  to  return  to  her — when 
he  grew  speechless  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence ;  but  from  his 
last  gesture,  I  understood  that  the  fatal  key  would  be  my 
passport  in  his  mother's  house.  It  troubled  him  that  he  was 
powerless  to  utter  a  single  word  to  thank  me,  for  of  my  wish 
to  serve  him  he  had  no  doubt.  He  looked  wistfully  at  me 
for  a  moment,  then  his  eyelids  drooped  in  token  of  farewell, 
and  his  head  sank,  and  he  died.  His  death  was  the  only  fatal 
accident  caused  by  the  overturn. 

"But  it  was  partly  his  own  fault,"  the  coachman  said  to 
me. 

At  La  Charite,  I  executed  the  poor  fellow's  dying  wishes. 
His  mother  was  away  from  home,  which  in  a  manner  was 
fortunate  for  me.  Nevertheless,  I  had  to  assuage  the  grief 
of  an  old  woman-servant,  who  staggered  back  at  the  tidings 
of  her  young  master's  death,  and  sank  half-dead  into  a  chair 
when  she  saw  the  blood-stained  key.  But  I  had  another  and 
more  dreadful  sorrow  to  think  of,  the  sorrow  of  a  woman 
who  had  lost  her  last  love;  so  I  left  the  old  woman  to  her 
prosopopeia,  and  carried  off  the  precious  correspondence, 
carefully  sealed  by  my  friend  of  a  day. 


THE  MESSAGE  273 

The  Countess  chateau  was  some  eight  leagues  heyond 
Moulins,  and  then  there  was  some  distance  to  walk  across 
country.  So  it  was  not  exactly  an  easy  matter  to  deliver  my 
message.  For  divers  reasons  into  which  I  need  not  enter, 
I  had  barely  sufficient  money  to  take  me  to  Moulins.  How- 
ever, my  youthful  enthusiasm  determined  to  hasten  thither 
on  foot  as  fast  as  possible.  Bad  news  travels  swiftly,  and  I 
wished  to  be  first  at  the  chateau.  I  asked  for  the  shortest  way, 
and  hurried  through  the  field  paths  of  the  Bourbonnais,  bear- 
ing, as  it  were,  a  dead  man  on  my  back.  The  nearer  I 
came  to  the  Chateau  de  Montpersan,  the  more  aghast  I  felt 
at  the  idea  of  my  strange  self-imposed  pilgrimage.  Vast 
numbers  of  romantic  fancies  ran  in  my  head.  I  imagined 
all  kinds  of  situations  in  which  I  might  find  this  Comtesse 
de  Montpersan,  or,  to  observe  the  laws  of  romance,  this 
Juliette,  so  passionately  beloved  of  my  traveling  companion. 
I  sketched  out  ingenious  answers  to  the  questions  which  she 
might  be  supposed  to  put  to  me.  At  every  turn  of  a  wood,  in 
every  beaten  pathway,  I  rehearsed  a  modern  version  of  the 
scene  in  which  Sosie  describes  the  battle  to  his  lantern.  To 
my  shame  be  it  said,  I  had  thought  at  first  of  nothing  but 
the  part  that  /  was  to  play,  of  my  own  cleverness,  of  how 
I  should  demean  myself;  but  now  that  I  was  in  the  coun- 
try, an  ominous  thought  flashed  through  my  soul  like  a 
thunderbolt  tearing  its  way  through  a  veil  of  gray  cloud. 

What  an  awful  piece  of  news  it  was  for  a  woman  whose 
whole  thoughts  were  full  of  her  young  lover,  who  was  look- 
ing forward  hour  by  hour  to  a  joy  which  no  words  can  ex- 
press, a  woman  who  had  been  at  a  world  of  pains  to  invent 
plausible  pretexts  to  draw  him  to  her  side.  Yet,  after  all, 
it  was  a  cruel  deed  of  charity  to  be  the  messenger  of  death ! 
So  1  hurried  on,  splashing  and  bemiring  myself  in  the  by- 
ways of  the  Bourbonnais. 

Before  very  long  I  reached  a  great  chestnut  avenue  with 
a  pile  of  buildings  at  the  further  end — the  Chateau  of  Mont- 
persan stood  out  against  the  sky  like  a  mass  of  brown  cloud, 
with  sharp,  fantastic  outlines.  All  the  doors  of  the  chateau 
VOL.  5—42 


274  THE  MESSAGE 

stood  open.  This  in  itself  disconcerted  me,  and  routed  all 
my  plans:  but  I  went  in  boldl}r,  and  in  a  moment  found  my- 
self between  a  couple  of  dogs,  barking  as  your  true  country- 
bred  animal  can  bark.  The  sound  brought  out  a  hurrying 
servant-maid;  who,  when  informed  that  I  wished  to  speak 
to  Mme.  la  Comtesse,  waved  a  hand  towards  the  masses  of 
trees  in  the  English  park  which  wound  about  the  chateau, 
with  "Madame  is  out  there " 

"Many  thanks,"  said  I  ironicall}'.  I  might  have  wan- 
dered for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  park  with  her  "out  there" 
to  guide  me. 

In  the  meantime,  a  pretty  little  girl,  with  curling  hair, 
dressed  in  a  white  frock,  a  rose-colored  sash,  and  a  broad  frill 
at  the  throat,  had  overheard  or  guessed  the  question  and 
its  answer.  She  gave  me  a  glance  and  vanished,  calling  in 
shrill,  childish  tones: 

"Mother,  here  is  a  gentleman  who  wishes  to  speak  to 
you !" 

And,  along  the  winding  alleys,  I  followed  the  skipping 
and  dancing  white  frill,  a  sort  of  will-o'-the-wisp,  that 
showed  me  the  way  among  the  trees. 

I  must  make  a  full  confession.  I  stopped  behind  the  last 
shrub  in  the  avenue,  pulled  up  my  collar,  rubbed  my  shabby 
hat  and  my  trousers  with  the  cuffs  of  my  sleeves,  dusted  my 
coat  with  the  sleeves  themselves,  and  gave  them  a  final  cleans- 
ing rub  one  against  the  other.  I  buttoned  my  coat  care- 
fully so  as  to  exhibit  the  inner,  always  the  least  worn,  side  of 
the  cloth,  and  finally  had  turned  down  the  tops  of  my 
trousers  over  my  boots,  artistically  cleaned  in  the  grass. 
Thanks  to  this  Gascon  toilet,  I  could  hope  that  the  lady 
would  not  take  me  for  the  local  rate  collector ;  but  now  when 
my  thoughts  travel  back  to  that  episode  of  my  youth,  I 
sometimes  laugh  at  my  own  expense. 

Suddenly,  just  as  I  was  composing  myself,  at  a  turning 
in  the  green  walk,  among  a  wilderness  of  flowers  lighted 
up  by  a  hot  ray  of  sunlight,  I  saw  Juliette — Juliette  and  her 
husband.  The  pretty  little  girl  held  her  mother  by  the  hand, 


THE  MESSAGE  275 

and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  lady  had  quickened  her  pace 
somewhat  at  the  child's  ambiguous  phrase.  Taken  aback  by 
the  sight  of  a  total  stranger,  who  bowed  with  a  tolerably  awk- 
ward air,  she  looked  at  me  with  a  coolly  courteous  expres- 
sion and  an  adorable  pout,  in  which  I,  who  knew  her  secret, 
could  read  the  full  extent  of  her  disappointment.  I  sought, 
but  sought  in  vain,  to  remember  any  of  the  elegant  phrases 
so  laboriously  prepared. 

This  momentary  hesitation  gave  the  lady's  husband  time 
to  come  forward.  Thoughts  by  the  myriad  flitted  through 
my  brain.  To  give  myself  a  countenance,  I  got  out  a  few 
sufficiently  feeble  inquiries,  asking  whether  the  persons  pres- 
ent were  really  M.  le  Comte  and  Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Mont- 
persan.  These  imbecilities  gave  me  time  to  form  my  own 
conclusions  at  a  glance,  and,  with  a  perspicacity  rare  at  that 
age,  to  analyze  the  husband  and  wife  whose  solitude  was 
about  to  be  so  rudely  disturbed. 

The  husband  seemed  to  be  a  specimen  of  a  certain  type 
of  nobleman,  the  fairest  ornaments  of  the  provinces  of  our 
day.  He  wore  big  shoes  with  stout  soles  to  them.  I  put  the 
shoes  first  advisedly,  for  they  made  an  even  deeper  impres- 
sion upon  me  than  a  seedy  black  coat,  a  pair  of  threadbare 
trousers,  a  flabby  cravat,  or  a  crumpled  shirt  collar.  There 
was  a  touch  of  the  magistrate  in  the  man,  a  good  deal  more 
of  the  Councillor  of  the  Prefecture,  all  the  self-importance 
of  the  mayor  of  the  arrondissement,  the  local  autocrat,  and  the 
soured  temper  of  the  unsuccessful  candidate  who  has  never 
been  returned  since  the  year  1816.  As  to  countenance — a 
wizened,  wrinkled,  sunburned  face,  and  long,  sleek  locks 
of  scanty  gray  hair;  as  to  character — an  incredible  mixture 
of  homely  sense  and  sheer  silliness;  of  a  rich  man's  over- 
bearing ways,  and  a  total  lack  of  manners ;  just  the  kind 
of  husband  who  is  almost  entirely  led  by  his  wife,  yet  im- 
agines himself  to  be  the  master;  apt  to  domineer  in  trifles, 
and  to  let  more  important  things  slip  past  unheeded — there 
you  have  the  man! 

But  the  Countess  1    Ah,  how  sharp  and  startling  the  con- 


276  THE  MESSAGE 

trast  between  husband  and  wife !  The  Countess  was  a  little 
woman,  with  a  flat,  graceful  figure  and  enchanting  shape; 
so  fragile,  so  dainty  was  she,  that  you  would  have  feared  to 
break  some  bone  if  you  so  much  as  touched  her.  She  wore 
a  white  muslin  dress,  a  rose-colored  sash,  and  rose-colored  rib- 
bons in  the  pretty  cap  on  her  head;  her  chemisette  was 
moulded  so  deliriously  by  her  shoulders  and  the  loveliest 
rounded  contours,  that  the  sight  of  her  awakened  an  irre- 
sistible desire  of  possession  in  the  depths  of  the  heart.  Her 
eyes  were  bright  and  dark  and  expressive,  her  movements 
graceful,  her  foot  charming.  An  experienced  man  of 
pleasure  would  not  have  given  her  more  than  thirty  years, 
her  forehead  was  so  girlish.  She  had  all  the  most  transient 
delicate  detail  of  youth  in  her  face.  In  character  she  seemed 
to  me  to  resemble  the  Comtesse  de  Lignolles  and  the  Mar- 
quise de  B ,  two  feminine  types  always  fresh  in  the  mem- 
ory of  any  young  man  who  has  read  Louvet's  romance. 

In  a  moment  I  saw  how  things  stood,  and  took  a  diplomatic 
course  that  would  have  done  credit  to  an  old  ambassador. 
For  once,  and  perhaps  for  the  only  time  in  my  life,  I  used 
tact,  and  knew  in  what  the  special  skill  of  courtiers  and  men 
of  the  world  consists. 

I  have  had  so  many  battles  to  fight  since  those  heedless 
days,  that  they  have  left  me  no  time  to  distil  all  the  least 
actions  of  daily  life,  and  to  do  everything  so  that  it  falls  in 
with  those  rules  of  etiquette  and  good  taste  which  wither  the 
most  generous  emotions. 

"M.  le  Comte,"  I  said  with  an  air  of  mystery,  "I  should 
like  a  few  words  with  you,"  and  I  fell  back  a  pace  or  two. 

He  followed  my  example.  Juliette  left  us  together,  going 
away  unconcernedly,  like  a  wife  who  knew  that  she  can 
learn  her  husband's  secrets  as  soon  as  she  chooses  to  know 
them. 

I  told  the  Count  briefly  of  the  death  of  my  traveling  com- 
panion. The  effect  produced  by  my  news  convinced  me  that 
his  affection  for  his  young  collaborator  was  cordial  enough, 
and  this  emboldened  me  to  make  reply  as  I  did. 

"My  wife  will  be  in  despair,"  cried  he;  "I  shall  be  obliged 
to  break  the  news  of  this  unhappy  event  with  great  caution." 


THE  MESSAGE  277 

"Monsieur,"  said  I,  "I  addressed  myself  to  you  in  the  first 
instance,  as  in  duty  bound.  I  could  not,  without  first  inform- 
ing you,  deliver  a  message  to  Mme.  la  Comtesse,  a  message 
intrusted  to  me  by  an  entire  stranger;  but  this  commission 
is  a  sort  of  sacred  trust,  a  secret  of  which  I  have  no  power 
to  dispose.  From  the  high  idea  of  your  character  which  he 
gave  me,  I  felt  sure  that  you  would  not  oppose  me  in  the  ful- 
filment of  a  dying  request.  Mme.  la  Comtesse  will  be  at 
liberty  to  break  the  silence  which  is  imposed  upon  me." 

At  this  eulogy,  the  Count  swung  his  head  very  amiably, 
responded  with  a  tolerably  involved  compliment,  and  finally 
left  me  a  free  field.  We  returned  to  the  house.  The  bell 
rang,  and  I  was  invited  to  dinner.  As  we  came  up  to  the 
house,  a  grave  and  silent  couple,  Juliette  stole  a  glance  at  us. 
Not  a  little  surprised  to  find  her  husband  contriving  some 
frivolous  excuse  for  leaving  us  together,  she  stopped  short, 
giving  me  a  glance — such  a  glance  as  women  only  can  give 
you.  In  that  look  of  hers  there  was  the  pardonable  curiosity 
of  the  mistress  of  the  house  confronted  with  a  guest  dropped 
down  upon  her  from  the  skies  and  innumerable  doubts, 
certainly  warranted  by  the  state  of  my  clothes,  by  my  youth 
and  my  expression,  all  singularly  at  variance;  there  was  all 
the  disdain  of  the  adored  mistress,  in  whose  eyes  all  men  save 
one  are  as  nothing;  there  were  involuntary  tremors  and 
alarms;  and,  above  all,  the  thought  that  it  was  tiresome  to 
have  an  unexpected  guest  just  now,  when,  no  doubt,  she  had 
been  scheming  to  enjoy  full  solitude  for  her  love.  This  mute 
eloquence  I  understood  in  her  eyes,  and  all  the  pity  and  com- 
passion in  me  made  answer  in  a  sad  smile.  I  thought  of  her, 
as  I  had  seen  her  for  one  moment,  in  the  pride  of  her  beauty ; 
standing  in  the  sunny  afternoon  in  the  narrow  alley  with  the 
flowers  on  either  hand;  and  as  that  fair  wonderful  picture 
rose  before  my  eyes,  I  could  not  repress  a  sigh. 

"Alas,  niadame,  I  have  just  made  a  very  arduous  journey 
,  undertaken  solely  on  your  account." 

"Sir !" 

"Oh!  it  is  on  behalf  of  one  who  calls  you  Juliette  that  I 
am  come,"  I  continued.  Her  face  grew  white. 


278  THE  MESSAGE 

"You  will  not  see  him  to-day." 

"Is  he  ill?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice  sank  lower. 

"Yes.  But  for  pity's-  sake,  control  yourself.  ...  He 
intrusted  me  with  secrets  that  concern  you,  and  you  may 
be  sure  that  never  messenger  could  be  more  discreet  nor  more 
devoted  than  I." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

"How  if  he  loved  you  no  longer?" 

"Oh !  that  is  impossible !"  she  cried,  and  a  faint  smile, 
nothing  less  than  frank,  broke  over  her  face.  Then  all  at 
once  a  kind  of  shudder  ran  through  her,  and  she  reddened, 
and  she  gave  me  a  wild,  swift  glance  as  she  asked: 

"Is  he  alive?" 

Great  God !  What  a  terrible  phrase !  I  was  too  young  to 
bear  that  tone  in  her  voice;  I  made  no  reply,  only  looked  at 
the  unhappy  woman  in  helpless  bewilderment. 

"Monsieur,  monsieur,  give  me  an  answer!"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Is  it  true  ?  Oh !  tell  me  the  truth ;  I  can  hear  the  truth. 
Tell  me  the  truth!  Any  pain  would  be  less  keen  than  this 
suspense." 

1  answered  by  two  tears  wrung  from  me  by  that  strange 
tone  of  hers.  She  leaned  against  a  tree  with  a  faint,  sharp 
cry. 

"Madame,  here  comes  your  husband !" 

"Have  I  a  husband?"  and  with  those  words  she  fled  away 
out  of  sight. 

"Well,"  cried  the  Count,  "dinner  is  growing  cold. — Come, 
monsieur." 

Thereupon  I  followed  the  master  of  the  house  into  the 
dining-room.  Dinner  was  served  with  all  the  luxury  which 
we  have  learned  to  expect  in  Paris.  There  were  five  covers 
laid,  three  for  the  Count  and  Countess  and  their  little 
daughter;  my  own,  which  should  have  been  his;  and  another 
for  the  canon  of  Saint-Denis,  who  said  grace,  and  then 
asked : 

"Why,  where  can  our  dear  Countess  be?" 


THE  MESSAGE  279 

"Oh!  she  will  be  here  directly/'  said  the  Count.  He  had 
hastily  helped  us  to  the  soup,  aud  was  dispatching  an  ample 
plateful  with  portentous  speed. 

"Oh!  nephew/'  exclaimed  the  canon,  "if  your  wife  were 
here,  you  would  behave  more  rationally." 

"Papa  will  make  himself  ill !"  said  the  child  with  a  mis- 
chievous look. 

Just  after  this  extraordinary  gastronomical  episode,  as  the 
Count  was  eagerly  helping  himself  to  a  slice  of  venison,  a 
housemaid  came  in  with,  "We  cannot  find  madame  any- 
where, sir !" 

I  sprang  up  at  the  words  with  a  dread  in  my  mind,  my 
fears  written  so  plainly  in  my  face,  that  the  old  canon  came 
out  alter  me  into  the  garden.  The  Count,  for  the  sake  of  ap- 
pearances, came  as  far  as  the  threshold. 

"Don't  go,  don't  go  !"  called  he.  "Don't  trouble  yourselves 
in  the  least,"  but  he  did  not  offer  to  accompany  us. 

We  three — the  canon,  the  housemaid,  and  I — hurried 
through  the  garden  walks  and  over  the  bowling-green  in  the 
park,  shouting,  listening  for  an  answer,  growing  more  uneasy 
every  moment.  As  we  hurried  along,  I  told  the  story  of  the 
fatal  accident,  and  discovered  how  strongly  the  maid  was 
attached  to  her  mistress,  for  she  took  my  secret  dread  far 
more  seriously  than  the  canon.  We  went  along  by  the  pools 
of  water ;  all  over  the  park  we  went ;  but  we  neither  found  the 
Countess  nor  any  sign  that  she  had  passed  that  way.  At  last 
we  turned  back,  and  under  the  Avails  of  some  outbuildings  I 
heard  a  smothered,  wailing  cry,  so  stifled  that  it  was  scarcely 
audible.  The  sound  seemed  to  come  from  a  place  that  might 
have  been  a  granary.  I  went  in  at  all  risks,  and  there  we 
found  Juliette.  With  the  instinct  of  despair,  she  had  buried 
herself  deep  in  the  hay,  hiding  her  face  in  it  to  deaden  those 
dreadful  cries — pudency  even  stronger  than  grief.  She  was 
sobbing  and  crying  like  a  child,  but  there  was  a  more  poign- 
ant, more  piteous  sound  in  the  sobs.  There  was  nothing  left 
in  the  world  for  her.  The  maid  pulled  the  hay  from  her, 
her  mistress  submitting  with  the  supine  listlessness  of  a  dying 


280  THE  MESSAGE 

animal.  The  maid  could  find  nothing  to  say  but  "There! 
madame;  there,  there " 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  What  is  it,  niece  ?"  the  old 
canon  kept  on  exclaiming. 

At  last,  with  the  girl's  help,  I  carried  Juliette  to  her  room, 
gave  orders  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed,  and  that  every 
one  must  be  told  that  the  Countess  was  suffering  from  a  sick 
headache.  Then  we  came  down  to  the  dining-room,  the 
canon  and  I. 

Some  little  time  had  passed  since  we  left  the  dinner-table ; 
I  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  the  Count  since  we  left  him 
under  the  peristyle;  his  indifference  had  surprised  me,  but 
my  amazement  increased  when  we  came  back  and  found  him 
seated  philosophically  at  table.  He  had  eaten  pretty  nearly 
all  the  dinner,  to  the  huge  delight  of  his  little  daughter;  the 
child  was  smiling  at  her  father's  flagrant  infraction  of  the 
Countess'  rules.  The  man's  odd  indifference  was  explained 
to  me  by  a  mild  altercation  which  at  once  arose  with  the 
canon.  The  Count  was  suffering  from  some  serious  com- 
plaint. I  cannot  remember  now  what  it  was,  but  his  med- 
ical advisers  had  put  him  on  a  very  severe  regimen,  and  the 
ferocious  hunger  familiar  to  convalescents,  sheer  animal 
appetite,  had  overpowered  all  human  sensibilities.  In  that 
little  space  I  had  seen  frank  and  undisguised  human  nature 
under  two  very  different  aspects,  in  such  a  sort  that  there  was 
a  certain  grotesque  element  in  the  very  midst  of  a  most  ter- 
rible tragedy. 

The  evening  that  followed  was  dreary.  I  was  tired.  The 
canon  racked  his  brains  to  discover  a  reason  for  his  niece's 
tears.  The  lady's  husband  silently  digested  his  dinner;  con- 
tent, apparently,  with  the  Countess'  rather  vague  explana- 
tion, sent  through  the  maid,  putting  forward  some  feminine 
ailment  as  her  excuse.  We  all  went  early  to  bed. 

As  I  passed  the  door  of  the  Countess'  room  on  the  way  to 
my  night's  lodging,  I  asked  the  servant  timidly  for  news  of 
her.  She  heard  my  voice,  and  would  have  me  come  in,  and 
tried  to  talk,  but  in  vain — she  could  not  utter  a  sound.  She 


THE  MESSAGE  281 

bent  her  head,  and  I  withdrew.  In  spite  of  the  painful  agita- 
tion, which  I  had  felt  to  the  full  as  youth  can  feel,  I  fell 
asleep,  tired  out  with  my  forced  march. 

It  was  late  in  the  night  when  I  was  awakened  by  the 
grating  sound  of  curtain  rings  drawn  sharply  over  the  metal 
rods.  There  sat  the  Countess  at  the  foot  of  my  bed.  The 
light  from  a  lamp  set  on  my  table  fell  full  upon  her  face. 

"Is  it  really  true,  monsieur,  quite  true?"  she  asked.  "I 
do  not  know  how  I  can  live  after  that  awful  blow  which 
struck  me  down  a  little  while  since ;  but  just  now  I  feel  calm. 
I  want  to  know  everything." 

"What  calm !"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  saw  the  ghastly  pallor 
of  her  face  contrasting  with  her  brown  hair,  and  heard  the 
guttural  tones  of  her  voice.  The  havoc  wrought  in  her  drawn 
features  filled  me  with  dumb  amazement. 

Those  few  hours  had  bleached  her;  she  had  lost  a  woman's 
last  glow  of  autumn  color.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen, 
nothing  of  their  beauty  remained,  nothing  looked  out  of  them 
save  her  bitter  and  exceeding  grief ;  it  was  as  if  a  gray  cloud 
covered  the  place  through  which  the  sun  had  shone. 

I  gave  her  the  story  of  the  accident  in  a  few  words,  without 
laying  too  much  stress  on  some  too  harrowing  details.  I  told 
her  about  our  first  day's  journey,  and  how  it  had  been  filled 
with  recollections  of  her  and  of  love.  And  she  listened 
eagerly,  without  shedding  a  tear,  leaning  her  face  towards 
me,  as  some  zealous  doctor  might  lean  to  watch  any  change 
in  a  patient's  face.  When  she  seemed  to  me  to  have  opened 
her  whole  heart  to  pain,  to  be  deliberately  plunging  herself 
into  misery  with  the  first  delirious  frenzy  of  despair.  I  caught 
at  my  opportunity,  and  told  her  of  the  fears  that  troubled 
the  poor  dying  man,  told  her  how  and  why  it  was  that  he  had 
given  me  this  fatal  message.  Then  her  tears  were  dried  by 
the  fires  that  burned  in  the  dark  depths  within  her.  She 
grew  even  paler.  When  I  drew  the  letters  from  beneath  my 
pillow  and  held  them  out  to  her,  she  took  them  mechanically ; 
then,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  she  said  in  a  hollow 
voice: 


282  THE  MESSAGE 

"And  /  burned  all  his  letters! — I  have  nothing  of  him 
left !— Nothing !  nothing !" 

She  struck  her  hand  against  her  forehead. 

"Madame "  I  began. 

She  glanced  at  me  in  the  convulsion  of  grief. 

"I  cut  this  from  his  head,  this  lock  of  his  hair." 

And  I  gave  her  that  last  imperishable  token  that  had  been 
a  very  part  of  him  she  loved.  Ah !  if  you  had  felt,  as  I  felt 
then,  her  burning  tears  falling  on  your  hands,  you  would 
know  what  gratitude  is,  when  it  follows  so  closely  upon  the 
benefit.  Her  eyes  shone  with  a  feverish  glitter,  a  faint  ray 
of  happiness  gleamed  out  of  her  terrible  suffering,  as  she 
grasped  my  hands  in  hers,  and  said,  in  a  choking  voice: 

"Ah !  you  love !  May  you  be  happy  always.  May  you 
never  lose  her  whom  you  love." 

She  broke  off,  and  fled  away  with  her  treasure. 

Next  morning,  this  night-scene  among  my  dreams  seemed 
like  a  dream ;  to  make  sure  of  the  piteous  truth,  I  was  obliged 
to  look  fruitlessly  under  my  pillow  for  the  packet  of  letters. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  how  the  next  day  went.  I  spent 
several  hours  of  it  with  the  Juliette  whom  my  poor  comrade 
had  so  praised  to  me.  In  her  lightest  words,  her  gestures,  in 
all  that  she  did  and  said,  I  saw  proofs  of  the  nobleness  of 
soul,  the  delicacy  of  feeling  which  made  her  what  she  was, 
one  of  those  beloved,  loving,  and  self-sacrificing  natures  so 
rarely  found  upon  this  earth. 

In  the  evening  the  Comte  de  Montpersan  came  himself  as 
far  as  Moulins  with  me.  There  he  spoke  with  a  kind  of  em- 
barrassment : 

"Monsieur,  if  it  is  not  abusing  your  good-nature,  and  act- 
ing very  inconsiderately  towards  a  stranger  to  whom  we  are 
already  under  obligations,  would  you  have  the  goodness,  as 
you  are  going  to  Paris,  to  remit  a  sum  of  money  to  M.  de — 
(I  forget  the  name),  in  the  Eue  du  Sentier;  I  owe  him  an 
amount,  and  he  asked  me  to  send  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Willingly,"  said  I.  And  in  the  innocence  of  my  heart,  I 
took  charge  of  a  rouleau  of  twenty-five  louis  d'or,  which  paid 


THE  MESSAGE  283 

the  expenses  of  my  journey  back  to  Paris ;  and  only  when,  on 
my  arrival,  I  went  to  the  address  indicated  to  repay  the 
amount  to  M.  de  Montpersan's  correspondent,  did  I  under- 
stand the  ingenious  delicacy  with  which  Julie  had  obliged 
me.  Was  not  all  the  genius  of  a  loving  woman  revealed  in 
such  a  way  of  lending,  in  her  reticence  with  regard  to  a 
poverty  easily  guessed? 

And  what  rapture  to  have  this  adventure  to  tell  to  a  woman 
who  clung  to  you  more  closely  in  dread,  saying,  "Oh,  my 
dear,  not  you!  you  must  not  die!" 

PARIS,  January  1832. 


GOBSECK 

To  M.  le  Baron  Barchou  de  Penhoen. 

Among  all  the  pupils  of  the  Oratorian  school  at  VendSme,  we 
are,  I  think,  the  only  two  who  have  afterwards  met  in  mid- 
career  of  a  life  of  letters — we  who  once  were  cultivating  Philo- 
sophy when  by  rights  we  should  have  been  minding  our  De 
viris.  When  we  met,  you  were  engaged  upon  your  noble  works 
on  German  philosophy,  and  I  upon  this  study.  So  neither  of  us 
has  missed  his  vocation;  and  you,  when  you  see  your  name 
here,  will  feel,  no  doubt,  as  much  pleasure  as  he  who  inscribes 
his  work  to  you. — Your  old  schoolfellow, 
1840.  DE  BALZAC. 

IT  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  during  the  winter  of  1829- 
30,  but  in  the  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu's  salon  two  persons 
stayed  on  who  did  not  belong  to  her  family  circle.  A  young 
and  good-looking  man  heard  the  clock  strike,  and  took  his 
leave.  When  the  courtyard  echoed  with  the  sound  of  a  de- 
parting carriage,  the  Vicomtesse  looked  up,  saw  that  no  one 
was  present  save  her  brother  and  a  friend  of  the  family  finish- 
ing their  game  of  piquet,  and  went  across  to  her  daughter. 
The  girl,  standing  by  the  chimney-piece,  apparently  exam- 
ining a  transparent  fire-screen,  was  listening  to  the  sounds 
from  the  courtyard  in  a  way  that  justified  certain  maternal 
fears. 

"Camille,"  said  the  Vicomtesse,  "if  you  continue  to  behave 
to  young  Comte  de  Eestaud  as  you  have  done  this  evening, 
you  will  oblige  me  to  see  no  more  of  him  here.  Listen,  child, 
and  if  you  have  any  confidence  in  my  love,  let  me  guide  you 
in  life.  At  seventeen  one  cannot  judge  of  past  or  future,  nor 

(285) 


286  GOBSECK 

of  certain  social  considerations.  I  have  only  one  thing  to 
say  to  you.  M.  de  Restaud  has  a  mother,  a  mother  who 
would  waste  millions  of  francs;  a  woman  of  no  birth,  a  Mile. 
Goriot ;  people  talked  a  good  deal  about  her  at  one  time.  She 
behaved  so  badly  to  her  own  father,  that  she  certainly  does 
not  deserve  to  have  so  good  a  son.  The  young  Count  adores 
her,  and  maintains  her  in  her  position  with  dutifulness 
worthy  of  all  praise,  and  he  is  extremely  good  to  his  brother 
and  sister. — But  however  admirable  his  behavior  may  be," 
the  Vicomtesse  added  with  a  shrewd  expression,  "so  long  as 
his  mother  lives,  any  family  would  take  alarm  at  the  idea  of 
intrusting  a  daughter's  fortune  and  future  to  young 
Restaud." 

"I  overheard  a  word  now  and  again  in  your  talk  with  Mile, 
de  Grandlieu,"  cried  the  friend  of  the  family,  "and  it  made 
me  anxious  to  put  in  a  word  of  my  own. — I  have  won,  M.  le 
Comte/'  he  added,  turning  to  his  opponent.  "I  shall  throw 
you  over  and  go  to  your  niece's  assistance." 

"See  what  it  is  to  have  an  attorney's  ears !"  exclaimed 
the  Vicomtesse.  "My  dear  Derville,  how  could  you  know 
what  I  was  saying  to  Camille  in  a  whisper?" 

"I  knew  it  from  your  looks,"  answered  Derville,  seating 
himself  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire. 

Camille's  uncle  went  to  her  side,  and  Mme.  de  Grandlieu 
took  up  her  position  on  a  hearth  stool  between  her  daughter 
and  Derville. 

"The  time  has  come  for  telling  a  story,  which  should 
modify  your  judgment  as  to  Ernest  de  Restaud's  prospects." 

"A  story?"  cried  Camille.    "Do  begin  at  once,  monsieur." 

The  glance  that  Derville  gave  the  Vicomtesse  told  her  that 
this  tale  was  meant  for  her.  The  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu, 
be  it  said,  was  one  of  the  greatest  ladies  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  by  reason  of  her  fortune  and  her  ancient 
name;  and  though  it  may  seem  improbable  that  a  Paris 
attorney  should  speak  so  familiarly  to  her,  or  be  so  much  at 
home  in  her  house,  the  fact  is  nevertheless  easily  explained. 

When  Mme.  de  Grandlieu  returned  to  France  with  the 


GOBSECK  287 

Royal  family,  she  came  to  Paris,  and  at  first  lived  entirely  on 
the  pension  allowed  her  out  of  the  Civil  List  by  Louis  XVIII. 
— an  intolerable  position.  The  Hotel  de  Grandlieu  had  been 
sold  by  the  Eepublic.  It  came  to  Derville's  knowledge  that 
there  were  flaws  in  the  title,  and  he  thought  that  it  ought  to 
return  to  the  Vicomtesse.  He  instituted  proceedings  for 
nullity  of  contract,  and  gained  the  day.  Encouraged  by  this 
success,  he  used  legal  quibbles  to  such  purpose  that  he  com- 
pelled some  institution  or  other  to  disgorge  the  Forest  of 
Liceney.  Then  he  won  certain  lawsuits  against  the  Canal 
d'Orleans,  and  recovered  a  tolerably  large  amount  of  prop- 
erty, with  which  the  Emperor  had  endowed  various  public 
institutions.  So  it  fell  out  that,  thanks  to  the  young  attor- 
ney's skilful  management,  Mme.  de  Grandlieu's  income 
reached  the  sum  of  some  sixty  thousand  francs,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  vast  sums  returned  to  her  by  the  law  of  in- 
demnity. And  Derville,  a  man  of  high  character,  well 
informed,  modest,  and  pleasant  in  company,  became  the 
house-friend  of  the  family. 

By  his  conduct  of  Mme.  de  Grandlieu's  affairs  he  had  fairly 
earned  the  esteem  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  and  num- 
bered the  best  families  among  his  clients ;  but  he  did  not  take 
advantage  of  his  popularity,  as  an  ambitious  man  might  have 
done.  The  Vicomtesse  would  have  had  him  sell  his  practice 
and  enter  the  magistracy,  in  which  career  advancement 
would  have  been  swift  and  certain  with  such  influence  at  his 
disposal ;  but  he  persistently  refused  all  offers.  He  only  went 
into  society  to  keep  up  his  connections,  but  he  occasionally 
spent  an  evening  at  the  Hotel  de  Grandlieu.  It  was  a  very 
lucky  thing  for  him  that  his  talents  had  been  brought  into 
the  light  by  his  devotion  to  Mme.  de  Grandlieu,  for  his  prac- 
tice otherwise  might  have  gone  to  pieces.  Derville  had  not 
an  attorney's  soul.  Since  Ernest  de  Restaud  had  appeared 
at  the  Hotel  de  Grandlieu,  and  he  had  noticed  that  Camille 
felt  attracted  to  the  young  man,  Derville  had  been  as  assidu- 
ous in  his  visits  as  any  dandy  of  the  Chaussee-d'Antin  newly 
admitted  to  the  noble  Faubourg.  At  a  ball  only  a  few  days 


288  GOBSECK 

before,  when  he  happened  to  stand  near  Camille,  and  said, 
indicating  the  Count : 

"It  is  a  pity  that  yonder  youngster  has  not  two  or  three 
million  francs,  is  it  not  ?" 

"Is  it  a  pity  ?  I  do  not  think  so,"  the  girl  answered.  "M. 
de  Restaud  has  plenty  of  ability ;  he  is  well  educated,  and  the 
Minister,  his  chief,  thinks  well  of  him.  He  will  be  a  remark- 
able man,  I  have  no  doubt.  'Yonder  youngster'  will  have  as 
much  money  as  he  wishes  when  he  comes  into  power." 

"Yes,-  but  suppose  that  he  were  rich  already  ?" 

"Eich  already?"  repeated  Camille,  flushing  red.  "Why, 
all  the  girls  in  the  room  would  be  quarreling  for  him,"  she 
added,  glancing  at  the  quadrilles. 

"And  then,"  retorted  the  attorney,  "Mile,  de  Grandlieu 
might  not  be  the  one  towards  whom  his  eyes  are  always 
turned  ?  That  is  what  that  red  color  means !  You  like  him, 
do  you  not  ?  Come,  speak  out." 

Camille  suddenly  rose  to  go. 

"She  loves  him,"  Derville  thought. 

Since  that  evening,  Camille  had  been  unwontedly  attentive 
to  the  attorney,  who  approved  of  her  liking  for  Ernest  de 
Restaud.  Hitherto,  although  she  knew  well  that  her  family 
lay  under  great  obligations  to  Derville,  she  had  felt  respect 
rather  than  real  friendship  for  him,  their  relation  was  more 
a  matter  of  politeness  than  of  warmth  of  feeling ;  and  by  her 
manner,  and  by  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  had  always  made 
him  sensible  of  the  distance  which  socially  lay  between  them. 
Gratitude  is  a  charge  upon  the  inheritance  which  the  second 
generation  is  apt  to  repudiate. 

"This  adventure,"  Derville  began  after  a  pause,  "brings 
the  one  romantic  event  in  my  life  to  my  mind.  You  are 
laughing  already,"  he  went  on;  "it  seems  so  ridiculous, 
doesn't  it,  that  an  attorney  should  speak  of  a  romance  in  his 
life?  But  once  I  was  five-and-twenty,  like  everybody  else, 
and  even  then  I  had  seen  some  queer  things.  I  ought  to  begin 
at  the  beginning  by  telling  you  about  some  one  whom  it  is 


GOBSECK  289 


impossible  that  you  shnjld  have  known.  The  man  in  ques- 
tion was  a  usurer. 

"Can  you  grasp  a  clear  notion  of  that  sallow,  wan  face  of 
his?  I  wish  the  Academie  would  give  me  leave  to  dub  such 
faces  the  lunar  type.  It  was  like  silver-gilt,  with  the  gilt 
rubbed  off.  His  hair  was  iron-gra3r,  sleek,  and  carefulty 
combed  ;  his  features  might  have  been  cast  in  bronze  ;  Talley- 
rand himself  was  not  more  impassive  than  this  money- 
lender. A  pair  of  little  eyes,  yellow  as  a  ferret's,  and  with 
scarce  an  eyelash  to  them,  peered  out  from  under  the  shelter- 
ing peak  of  a  shabby  old  cap,  as  if  they  feared  the  light.  He 
had  the  thin  lips  that  you  see  in  Eembrandt's  or  Metsu's 
portraits  of  alchemists  and  shrunken  old  men,  and  a  nose  so 
sharp  at  the  tip  that  it  put  you  in  mind  of  a  gimlet.  His 
voice  was  low;  he  always  spoke  suavely;  he  never  flew  into  a 
passion.  His  age  was  a  problem;  it  was  hard  to  say  whether 
he  had  grown  old  before  his  time,  or  whether  by  economy  of 
youth  he  had  saved  enough  to  last  him  his  life. 

"This  room,  and  everything  in  it,  from  the  green  baize  of 
his  bureau  to  the  strip  of  carpet  by  the  bed,  was  as  clean  and 
threadbare  as  the  chilly  sanctuary  of  some  elderly  spinster 
who  spends  her  days  in  rubbing  her  furniture.  In  winter 
time,  the  live  brands  of  the  fire  smouldered  all  day  in  a  bank 
of  ashes;  there  was  never  any  flame  in  his  grate.  He  went 
through  his  day,  from  his  uprising  to  his  evening  coughing- 
fit,  with  the  regularity  of  a  pendulum,  and  in  some  sort  was 
a  clockwork  man,  wound  up  by  a  night's  slumber.  Touch  a 
wood-louse  on  an  excursion  across  your  sheet  of  paper,  and 
the  creature  shams  death;  and  in  something  the  same  way 
my  acquaintance  would  stop  short  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence, while  a  cart  went  by,  to  save  the  strain  to  his  voice. 
Following  the  example  of  Fontenelle,  he  was  thrifty  of  pulse- 
strokes,  and  concentrated  all  human  sensibility  in  the  inner- 
most sanctuary  of  Self. 

"His  life  flowed  soundless  as  the  sands  of  an  hour-glass. 
His  victims  sometimes  flew  into  a  rage  and  made  a  great  deal 
VOL.  5—43 


290  GOBSECK 

of  noise,  followed  by  a  great  silence;  so  is  it  in  a  kitchen  after 
a  fowl's  neck  has  been  wrung. 

"Toward  evening  this  bill  of  exchange  incarnate  would 
assume  ordinary  human  shape,  and  his  metals  were  meta- 
morphosed into  a  human  heart.  When  he  was  satisfied  with 
his  day's  business,  he  would  rub  his  hands;  his  inward  glee 
would  escape  like  smoke  through  every  rift  and  wrinkle  of 
his  face; — in  no  other  way  is  it  possible  to  give  an  idea  of 
the  mute  play  of  muscle  which  expressed  sensations  similar  to 
the  soundless  laughter  of  Leather  Stocking.  Indeed,  even  in 
transports  of  joy,  his  conversation  was  confined  to  monosyl- 
lables; he  wore  the  same  non-committal  countenance. 

"This  was  the  neighbor  Chance  found  for  me  in  the  house 
in  the  Rue  des  Gres,  where  I  used  to  live  when  as  yet  I  was 
only  a  second  clerk  finishing  my  third  year's  studies.  The 
house  is  damp  and  dark,  and  boasts  no  courtyard.  All  the 
windows  look  on  the  street;  the  whole  dwelling,  in  claustral 
fashion,  is  divided  into  rooms  or  cells  of  equal  size,  all  open- 
ing upon  a  long  corridor  dimly  lit  with  borrowed  lights.  The 
place  must  have  been  part  of  an  old  convent  once.  So 
gloomy  was  it,  that  the  gaiety  of  eldest  sons  forsook  them 
on  the  stairs  before  they  reached  my  neighbor's  door.  He 
and  his  house  were  much  alike;  even  so  does  the  oyster 
resemble  his  native  rock. 

"I  was  the  one  creature  with  whom  he  had  any  communi- 
cation, socially  speaking ;  he  would  come  in  to  ask  for  a  light, 
to  borrow  a  book  or  a  newspaper,  and  of  an  evening  he  would 
allow  me  to  go  into  his  cell,  and  when  he  was  in  the  humor 
we  would  chat  together.  These  marks  of  confidence  were  the 
results  of  four  years  of  neighborhood  and  my  own  sober  con- 
duct. From  sheer  lack  of  pence,  I  was  bound  to  live  pretty 
much  as  he  did.  Had  he  any  relations  or  friends?  Was  he 
rich  or  poor?  Nobody  could  give  an  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions. I  myself  never  saw  money  in  his  room.  Doubtless  his 
capital  was  safely  stowed  in  the  strong  rooms  of  the  Bank. 
He  used  to  collect  his  bills  himself  as  they  fell  due,  running 
all  over  Paris  on  a  pair  of  shanks  as  skinny  as  a  stag's.  On 


GOBSECK  291 

occasion  he  could  be  a  martyr  to  prudence.  One  day,  when 
he  happened  to  have  gold  in  his  pockets,  a  double  napoleon 
worked  its  way,  somehow  or  other,  out  of  his  fob  and  fell,  and 
another  lodger  following  him  up  the  stairs  picked  up  the 
coin  and  returned  it  to  its  owner. 

"  'That  isn't  mine !'  said  he,  with  a  start  of  surprise. 
'Mine  indeed  !  If  I  were  rich,  should  I  live  as  I  do !' 

"He  made  his  cup  of  coffee  himself  every  morning  on  the 
cast-iron  chafing  dish  which  stood  all  day  in  the  black  angle 
of  the  grate;  his  dinner  came  in  from  a  cookshop;  and  our 
old  porter's  wife  went  up  at  the  prescribed  hour  to  set  his 
room  in  order.  Finall}^,  a  whimsical  chance,  in  which  Sterne 
would  have  seen  predestination,  had  named  the  man  Gobseck. 
When  I  did  business  for  him  later,  I  came  to  know  that  he 
was  about  seventy-six  years  old  at  the  time  when  we  became 
acquainted.  He  was  born  about  1740,  in  some  outlying 
suburb  of  Antwerp,  of  a  Dutch  father  and  a  Jewish  mother, 
and  his  name  was  Jean-Esther  Van  Gobseck.  You  remember 
how  all  Paris  took  an  interest  in  that  murder  case,  a  woman 
named  La  belle  Hollandaise?  I  happened  to  mention  it  to 
my  old  neighbor,  and  he  answered  without  the  slightest 
symptom  of  interest  or  surprise,  'She  is  my  grandniece.' 

"That  was  the  only  remark  drawn  from  him  by  the  death 
of  his  sole  surviving  next  of  kin,  his  sister's  granddaughter. 
From  reports  of  the  case  I  found  that  La  belle  Hollandaise 
was  in  fact  named  Sara  Van  Gobseck.  When  I  asked  by 
what  curious  chance  his  grandniece  came  to  bear  his  surname, 
he  smiled: 

"  'The  women  never  marry  in  our  family/ 

"Singular  creature,  he  had  never  cared  to  find  out  a  single 
relative  among  four  generations  counted  on  the  female  side. 
The  thought  of  his  heirs  was  abhorrent  to  him;  and  the  idea 
that  his  wealth  could  pass  into  other  hands  after  his  death 
simply  inconceivable. 

"He  was  a  child,  ten  years  old,  when  his  mother  shipped 
him  off  as  a  cabin  boy  on  a  voyage  to  the  Dutch  Straits  Set- 
tlements, and  there  he  knocked  about  for  twenty  years.  The 


293  GOBSECK 

inscrutable  lines  on  that  sallow  forehead  kept  the  secret  of 
horrible  adventures,  sudden  panic,  unhoped-for  luck,  roman- 
tic cross  events,  joys  that  knew  no  limit,  hunger  endured  and 
love  trampled  under  foot,  fortunes  risked,  lost,  and  recovered, 
life  endangered  time  and  time  again,  and  saved,  it  may  be, 
by  one  of  the  rapid,  ruthless  decisions  absolved  by  necessity. 
He  had  known  Admiral  Simeuse,  M.  de  Lally,  M.  de  Ker- 
garouet,  M.  d'Estaing,  le  Bailli  de  Suffren,  M.  de  Porten- 
duere,  Lord  Cornwallis,  Lord  Hastings,  Tippoo  Sahib's 
father,  Tippoo  Sahib  himself.  The  bully  who  served  Maha- 
daji  Sindhia,  King  of  Delhi,  and  did  so  much  to  found  the 
power  of  the  Mahrattas,  had  had  dealings  with  Gobseck. 
Long  residence  at  St.  Thomas  brought  him  in  contact  with 
Victor  Hughes  and  other  notorious  pirates.  In  his  quest  of 
fortune  he  had  left  no  stone  unturned;  witness  an  attempt 
to  discover  the  treasure  of  that  tribe  of  savages  so  famous  in 
Buenos  Ayres  and  its  neighborhood.  He  had  a  personal 
knowledge  of  the  events  of  the  American  War  of  Independ- 
ence. But  if  he  spoke  of  the  Indies  or  of  America,  as  he  did 
very  rarely  with  me,  and  never  with  any  one  else,  he  seemed 
to  regard  it  as  an  indiscretion  and  to  repent  of  it  afterwards. 
If  humanity  and  sociability  are  in  some  sort  a  religion,  Gob- 
seck might  be  ranked  as  an  infidel;  but  though  I  set  myself 
to  study  him,  I  must  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  his  real 
nature  was  impenetrable  up  to  the  very  last.  I  even  felt 
doubts  at  times  as  to  his  sex.  If  all  usurers  are  like  this  one, 
I  maintain  that  they  belong  to  the  neuter  gender. 

"Did  he  adhere  to  his  mother's  religion?  Did  he  look  on 
Gentiles  as  his  legitimate  prey?  Had  he  turned  Roman 
Catholic,  Lutheran,  Mahometan,  Brahmin,  or  what  not?  I 
never  knew  anything  whatsoever  about  his  religious  opinions, 
and  so  far  as  I  could  see,  he  was  indifferent  rather  than  in- 
credulous. 

"One  evening  I  went  in  to  see  this  man  who  had  turned 
himself  to  gold;  the  usurer,  whom  his  victims  (his  clients, 
as  he  styled  them )  were  wont  to  call  Daddy  Gobseck,  perhaps 
ironically,  perhaps  by  way  of  antiphrasis.  He  was  sitting  in 


.  GOBSBCK  293 

his  armchair,  motionless  as  a  statue,  staring  fixedly  at  the 
mantel-shelf,  where  he  seemed  to  read  the  figures  of  hia 
statements.  A  lamp,  with  a  pedestal  that  had  once  been 
green,  was  burning  in  the  room ;  but  so  far  from  taking  color 
from  its  smoky  light,  his  face  seemed  to  stand  out  positively 
paler  against  the  background.  He  pointed  to  a  chair  set  for 
me,  but  not  a  word  did  he  say. 

"  'What  thoughts  can  this  being  have  in  his  mind  ?'  said  I 
to  myself.  'Does  he  know  that  a  God  exists;  does  he  know 
there  are  such  things  as  feeling,  woman,  happiness?'  I  pitied 
him  as  I  might  have  pitied  a  diseased  creature.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  I  knew  quite  well  that  while  he  had  millions  of 
francs  at  his  command,  he  possessed  the  world  no  less  in  idea 
— that  world  which  he  had  explored,  ransacked,  weighed, 
appraised,  and. exploited. 

"  'Good  day,  Daddy  Gobseck,'  I  began. 

"He  turned  his  face  towards  me,  with  a  slight  contraction 
of  his  bushy,  black  eyebrows;  this  characteristic  shade  of 
expression  in  him  meant  as  much  as  the  most  jubilant  smile 
on  a  Southern  face. 

"  'You  look  just  as  gloomy  as  you  did  that  day  when  the 
news  came  of  the  failure  of  that  bookseller  whose  sharpness 
you  admired  so  much,  though  you  were  one  of  his  victims.' 

"  'One  of  his  victims?'  he  repeated,  with  a  look  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"  'Yes.  Did  you  not  refuse  to  accept  composition  at  the 
meeting  of  creditors  until  he  undertook  privately  to  pay  you 
your  debt  in  full;  and  did  he  not  give  you  bills  accepted  by 
the  insolvent  firm;  and  then,  when  he  set  up  in  business 
again,  did  he  not  pay  you  the  dividend  upon  those  bills  of 
yours,  signed  as  they  were  by  the  bankrupt  firm?' 

"  'He  was  a  sharp  one,  but  I  had  it  out  of  him.' 

"  'Then  have  you  some  bills  to  protest  ?  To-day  is  the 
30th,  I  believe.' 

"It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  spoken  to  him  of  money. 
He  looked  ironically  up  at  me;  then  in  those  bland  accents, 
not  unlike  the  husky  tones  which  the  tyro  draws  from  a 
flute,  he  answered,  'I  am  amusing  myself.' 


294  GOBSECK 

"'So  you  amuse  yourself  now  and  again?' 

"  'Do  you  imagine  that  the  only  poets  in  the  world  are 
those  who  print  their  verses?'  he  asked,  with  a  pitying  look 
and  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  'Poetry  in  that  head !'  thought  I,  for  as  yet  I  knew 
nothing  of  his  life. 

"  'What  life  could  be  as  glorious  as  mine  ?'  he  continued, 
and  his  eyes  lighted  up.  'You  are  young,  your  mental  visions 
are  colored  by  youthful  blood,  you  see  women's  faces  in  the 
fire,  while  I  see  nothing  but  coals  in  mine.  You  have  all  sorts 
of  beliefs,  while  I  have  no  beliefs  at  all.  Keep  your  illusions 
— if  you  can.  Now  I  will  show  you  life  with  the  discount 
taken  off.  Go  wherever  you  like,  or  stay  at  home  by  the  fire- 
side with  your  wife,  there  always  comes  a  time  when  you  settle 
down  in  a  certain  groove,  the  groove  of  your  preference ;  and 
then  happiness  consists  in  the  exercise  of  your  faculties  by 
applying  them  to  realities.  Anything  more  in  the  way  of 
precept  is  false.  My  principles  have  been  various,  among 
various  men;  I  had  to  change  them  with  every  change  of 
latitude.  Things  that  we  admire  in  Europe  are  punishable 
in  Asia,  and  a  vice  in  Paris  becomes  a  necessity  when  you 
have  passed  the  Azores.  There  are  no  such  things  as  hard- 
and-fast  rules;  there  are  only  conventions  adapted  to  the 
climate.  Fling  a  man  headlong  into  one  social  melting  pot 
after  another,  and  convictions  and  forms  and  moral  systems 
become  so  many  meaningless  words  to  him.  The  one  thing 
that  always  remains,  the  one  sure  instinct  that  nature  has 
implanted  in  us,  is  the  instinct  of  self-preservation.  In 
European  society  you  call  this  instinct  self-interest.  If  you 
had  lived  as  long  as  I  have,  you  would  know  that  there  is  but 
one  concrete  reality  invariable  enough  to  be  worth  caring 
about,  and  that  is — GOLD.  Gold  represents  every  form  of 
human  power.  I  have  traveled.  I  found  out  that  there  were 
either  hills  or  plains  everywhere :  the  plains  are  monotonous, 
the  hills  a  weariness;  consequently,  place  may  be  left  out  of 
the  question.  As  to  manners;  man  is  man  all  the  world  over. 
The  same  battle  between  the  poor  and  the  rich  is  going  on 


GOBSECK  295 

everywhere;  it  is  inevitable  everywhere;  consequently,  it  is 
better  to  exploit  than  to  be  exploited.  Everywhere  you  find 
the  man  of  thews  and  sinews  who  toils,  and  the  lymphatic 
man  who  torments  himself;  and  pleasures  are  everywhere 
the  same,  for  when  all  sensations  are  exhausted,  all  that  sur- 
vives is  Vanity — Vanity  is  the  abiding  substance  of  us,  the  / 
in  us.  Vanity  is  only  to  be  satisfied  by  gold  in  floods.  Our 
dreams  need  time  and  physical  means  and  painstaking 
thought  before  they  can  be  realized.  Well,  gold  contains  all 
things  in  embryo;  gold  realizes  all  things  for  us. 

"  'None  but  fools  and  invalids  can  find  pleasure  in  shuffling 
cards  all  evening  long  to  find  out  whether  they  shall  win  a 
few  pence  at  the  end.  None  but  driveling  idiots  could  spend 
time  in  inquiring  into  all  that  is  happening  around  them, 
whether  Madame  Such-an-One  slept  single  on  her  couch  or 
in  company,  whether  she  has  more  blood  than  lymph,  more 
temperament  than  virtue.  None  but  the  dupes,  who  fondly 
imagine  that  they  are  useful  to  their  like,  can  interest  them- 
selves in  laying  down  rules  for  political  guidance  amid  events 
which  neither  they  nor  any  one  else  foresees,  nor  ever  will 
foresee.  None  but  simpletons  can  delight  in  talking  about 
stage  players  and  repeating  their  sayings;  making  the  daily 
promenade  of  a  caged  animal  over  a  rather  larger  area; 
dressing  for  others,  eating  for  others,  priding  themselves  on 
a  horse  or  a  carriage  such  as  no  neighbor  can  have  until  three 
days  later.  What  is  all  this  but  Parisian  life  summed  up 
in  a  few  phrases?  Let  us  find  a  higher  outlook  on  life  than 
theirs.  Happiness  consists  either  in  strong  emotions  which 
drain  our  vitalit}r,  or  in  methodical  occupation  which  makes 
existence  like  a  bit  of  English  machinery,  working  with  the 
regularity  of  clockwork.  A  higher  happiness  than  either 
consists  in  a  curiosity,  styled  noble,  a  wish  to  learn  Nature's 
secrets,  or  to  attempt  by  artificial  means  to  imitate  Nature 
to  some  extent.  What  is  this  in  two  words  but  Science  and 
Art,  or  passion  or  calm  ? — Ah !  well,  every  human  passion 
wrought  up  to  its  highest  pitch  in  the  struggle  for  existence 
comes  to  parade  itself  here  before  me — as  I  live  in  calm.  As 


296  GOBSECK 

for  your  scientific  curiosity,  a  kind  of  wrestling  bout  in  which 
man  is  never  uppermost,  lt  replace  it  by  an  insight  into  all  the 
springs  of  action  in  man  and  woman.  To  sum  up,  the  world 
is  mine  without  effort  of  mine,  and  the  world  has  not  the 
slightest  hold  on  me.  Listen  to  this/  he  went  on,  'I  will  tell 
you  the  history  of  my  morning,  and  you  will  divine  my 
pleasures/ 

"He  got  up,  pushed  the  bolt  of  the  door,  drew  a  tapestry 
curtain  across  it  with  a  sharp  grating  sound  of  the  rings  on 
the  rod,  then  he  sat  down  again. 

"  'This  morning/  he  said,  'I  had  only  two  amounts  to  col- 
lect; the  rest  of  the  bills  that  were  due  I  gave  away  instead 
of  cash  to  my  customers  yesterday.  So  much  saved,  you  see, 
for  when  I  discount  a  bill  I  always  deduct  two  francs  for  a 
hired  brougham — expenses  of  collection.  A  pretty  thing  it 
would  be,  would  it  not,  if  my  clients  were  to  set  me  trudg- 
ing all  over  Paris  for  half-a-dozen  francs  of  discount,  when 
no  man  is  my  master,  and  I  only  pay  seven  francs  in  the 
shape  of  taxes? 

"  'The  first  bill  for  a  thousand  francs  was  presented  by  a 
young  fellow,  a  smart  buck  with  a  spangled  waistcoat,  and 
an  eyeglass,  and  a  tilbury  and  an  English  horse,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  The  bill  bore  the  signature  of  one  of  the  prettiest 
women  in  Paris,  married  to  a  Count,  a  great  landowner. 
Now,  how  came  that  Countess  to  put  her  name  to  a  bill  of 
exchange,  legally  not  worth  the  paper  it  was  written  upon, 
but  practically  very  good  business;  for  these  women,  poor 
things,  are  afraid  of  the  scandal  that  a  protested  bill  makes 
in  a  family,  and  would  give  themselves  away  in  payment 
sooner  than  fail?  I  wanted  to  find  out  what  that  bill  of 
exchange  really  represented.  Was  it  stupidity,  imprudence, 
love,  or  charity? 

"  'The  second  bill,  bearing  the  signature  "Fanny  Malvaut," 
came  to  me  from  a  linen-draper  on  the  highway  to  bank- 
ruptcy. Now,  no  creature  who  has  any  credit  with  a  bank 
comes  to  me.  The  first  step  to  my  door  means  that  a  man 
is  desperately  hard  up ;  that  the  news  of  his  failure  will  soon 


GOBSEGK  297 

come  out :  and,  most  of  all,  it  means  that  he  has  been  every- 
where else  first.  The  stag  is  always  at  bay  when  I  see  him, 
and  a  pack  of  creditors  are  hard  upon  his  track.  The 
Countess  lived  in  the  Rue  du  Helder,  and  my  Fanny  in  the 
Rue  Montmartre.  How  many  conjectures  I  made  as  I  set 
out  this  morning !  If  these  two  women  were  not-  able  to  pay, 
they  would  show  me  more  respect  than  they  would  show  their 
own  fathers.  What  tricks  and  grimaces  would  not  the 
Countess  try  for  a  thousand  francs !  She  would  be  so  nice 
to  me,  she  would  talk  to  me  in  that  ingratiating  tone  peculiar 
to  endorsers  of  bills,  she  would  pour  out  a  torrent  of  coaxing 
words,  perhaps  she  would  beg  and  pray,  and  I  .  .  .'  (here 
the  old  man  turned  his  pale  eyes  upon  me — 'and  I  not  to  be 
moved,  inexorable !'  he  continued.  'I  am  there  as  the 
avenger,  the  apparition  of  Remorse.  So  much  for  hypotheses. 
I  reached  the  house. 

"  '  "Madame  la  Comtesse  is  asleep,"  says  the  maid. 

""'When  can  I  see  her?" 

"'"At  twelve  o'clock." 

"'"Is  Madame  la  Comtesse  ill?" 

" '  "No,  sir,  but  she  only  came  home  at  three  o'clock  this 
morning  from  a  ball." 

" '  "My  name  is  Gobseck,  tell  her  that  I  shall  call  again  at 
twelve  o'clock,"  and  out  I  went,  leaving  traces  of  my  muddy 
boots  on  the  carpet  which  covered  the  paved  staircase.  I  like 
to  leave  mud  on  a  rich  man's  carpet;  it  is  not  petty  spite;  I 
like  to  make  them  feel  a  touch  of  the  claws  of  Necessity.  In 
the  Rue  Montmartre  I  thrust  open  the  old  gateway  of  a  poor- 
looking  house,  and  looked  into  a  dark  courtyard  where  the 
sunlight  never  shines.  The  porter's  lodge  was  grimy,  the 
window  looked  like  the  sleeve  of  some  shabby  wadded  gown — 
greasy,  dirty,  and  full  of  holes. 

"  '  "Mile.  Fanny  Malvaut  ?" 

" '  "She  has  gone  out ;  but  if  you  have  come  about  a  bill, 
the  money  is  waiting  for  you." 

" '  "I  will  look  in  again,"  said  I. 

"  'As  soon  as  I  knew  that  the  porter  had  the  money  for 


298  GOBSECK 

me,  I  wanted  to  know  what  the  girl  was  like ;  I  pictured  her 
as  pretty.  The  rest  of  the  morning  I  spent  in  looking  at  the 
prints  in  the  shop  windows  along  the  boulevard;  then,  just 
as  it  struck  twelve,  I  went  through  the  Countess'  ante- 
chamber. 

" '  "Madame  has  just  this  minute  rung  for  me/'  said  the 
maid;  "I  don't  think  she  can  see  you  yet." 

" '  "I  will  wait,"  said  I,  and  sat  down  in  an  easy-chair. 

"  'Venetian  shutters  were  opened,  and  presently  the  maid 
came  hurrying  back. 

"  <  "Come  in,  sir." 

"  'From  the  sweet  tone  of  the  girl's  voice,  I  knew  that  the 
mistress  could  not  be  ready  to  pay.  What  a  handsome  woman 
it  was  that  I  saw  in  another  moment !  She  had  flung  an 
Indian  shawl  hastily  over  her  bare  shoulders,  covering  her- 
self with  it  completely,  while  it  revealed  the  bare  outlines  of 
the  form  beneath.  She  wore  a  loose  gown  trimmed  with 
snowy  ruffles,  which  told  plainly  that  her  laundress'  bills 
amounted  to  something  like  two  thousand  francs  in  the 
course  of  a  year.  Her  dark  curls  escaped  from  beneath  a 
bright  Indian  handkerchief,  knotted  carelessly  about  her  head 
after  the  fashion  of  Creole  women.  The  bed  lay  in  disorder 
that  told  of  broken  slumber.  A  painter  would  have  paid 
money  to  stay  a  while  to  see  the  scene  that  I  saw.  Under  the 
luxurious  hanging  draperies,  the  pillow,  crushed  into  the 
depths  of  an  eider-down  quilt,  its  lace  border  standing  out 
in  contrast  against  the  background  of  blue  silk,  bore  a 
vague  impress  that  kindled  the  imagination.  A  pair  of  satin 
slippers  gleamed  from  the  great  bear-skin  rug  spread  by  the 
carved  mahogany  lions  at  the  bed-foot,  where  she  had  flung 
them  off  in  her  weariness  after  the  ball.  A  crumpled  gown 
hung  over  a  chair,  the  sleeves  touching  the  floor;  stockings 
which  a  breath  would  have  blown  away  were  twisted  about 
the  leg  of  an  easy-chair;  while  ribbon  garters  straggled  over 
a  settee.  A  fan  of  price,  half  unfolded,  glittered  on  the 
chimney-piece.  Drawers  stood  open;  flowers,  diamonds, 
gloves,  a  bouquet,  a  girdle,  were  littered  about.  The  room 


GOBSECK  299 

was  full  of  vague  sweet  perfume.  And — beneath  all  the  lux- 
ury and  disorder,  beauty  and  incongruity,  I  saw  Misery 
crouching  in  wait  for  her  or  for  her  adorer,  Misery  rearing 
its  head,  for  the  Countess  had  begun  to  feel  the  edge  of  those 
fangs.  Her  tired  face  was  an  epitome  of  the  room  strewn 
with  relics  of  past  festival.  The  scattered  gewgaws,  pitiable 
this  morning,  when  gathered  together  and  coherent,  had 
turned  heads  the  night  before. 

"  'What  efforts  to  drink  of  the  Tantalus  cup  of  bliss  I 
could  read  in  these  traces  of  love  stricken  by  the  thunder- 
bolt remorse — in  this  visible  presentment  of  a  life  of  luxury, 
extravagance,  and  riot.  There  were  faint  red  marks  on  her 
young  face,  signs  of  the  fineness  of  the  skin ;  but  her  features 
were  coarsened,  as  it  were,  and  the  circles  about  her  eyes  were 
unwontedly  dark.  Nature  nevertheless  was  so  vigorous  in 
her,  that  these  traces  of  past  folty  did  not  spoil  her  beauty. 
Her  eyes  glittered.  She  looked  like  some  Herodias  of  da 
Vinci's  (I  have  dealt  in  pictures),  so  magnificently  full  of 
life  and  energy  was  she;  there  was  nothing  starved  nor 
stinted  in  feature  or  outline;  she  awakened  desire;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  some  passion  in  her  yet  stronger  than 
love.  I  was  taken  with  her.  It  was  a  long  while  since  my 
heart  had  throbbed;  so  I  was  paid  then  and  there — for  I 
would  give  a  thousand  francs  for  a  sensation  that  should 
bring  me  back  memories  of  youth. 

" '  "Monsieur,"  she  said,  finding  a  chair  for  me,  "will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  wait?" 

" '  "Until  this  time  to-morrow,  madame,"  I  said,  folding 
up  the  bill  again.  "I  cannot  legally  protest  this  bill  any 
sooner."  And  within  myself  I  said — "Pay  the  price  of  your 
luxury,  pay  for  your  name,  pay  for  your  ease,  pay  for  the 
monopoly  which  you  enjo}r !  The  rich  have  invented  judges 
and  courts  of  law  to  secure  their  goods,  and  the  guillotine — 
that  candle  in  which  so  many  an  ignorant  moth  burns  his 
wings.  But  for  you  who  lie  in  silk,  under  silken  coverlets, 
there  is  remorse,  and  grinding  of  teeth  beneath  a  smile,  and 
those  fantastical  lions'  jaws  are  gaping  to  set  their  fangs  in 
your  heart." 


300  GOBSECK 

"'"Protest  the  bill!  Can  you  mean  it?"  she  cried,  with 
her  eyes  upon  me ;  "could  you  have  so  little  consideration  for 
me?" 

" '  "If  the  King  himself  owed  money  to  me,  madame,  and 
did  not  pay  it,  I  should  summons  him  even  sooner  than  any 
other  debtor." 

"  'While  we  were  speaking,  somebody  tapped  gently  at  the 
door. 

"  '  "I  cannot  see  any  one,"  she  cried  imperiously. 

" '  "But,  Anastasie,  I  particularly  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

" '  "Not  just  now,  dear,"  she  answered  in  a  milder  tone, 
but  with  no  sign  of  relenting. 

"  '  "What  nonsense !  You  are  talking  to  some  one,"  said 
the  voice,  and  in  came  a  man  who  could  only  be  the  Count. 

"  'The  Countess  gave  me  a  glance.  I  saw  how  it  was.  She 
was  thoroughly  in  my  power.  There  was  a  time,  when  I 
was  young,  and  might  perhaps  have  been  stupid  enough  not 
to  protest  the  bill.  At  Pondicherry,  in  1763,  I  let  a  woman 
off,  and  nicely  she  paid  me  out  afterwards.  I  deserved  it; 
what  call  was  there  for  me  to  trust  her? 

"  *'  "What  does  this  gentleman  want  ?"  asked  the  Count. 

"  'I  could  see  that  the  Countess  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot;  the  white  satin  skin  of  her  throat  was  rough, 
"turned  to  goose  flesh,"  to  use  the  familiar  expression.  As 
for  me,  I  laughed  in  myself  without  moving  a  muscle. 

" '  "This  gentleman  is  one  of  my  tradesmen,"  she  said. 

"  'The  Count  turned  his  back  on  me ;  I  drew  the  bill  half 
out  of  my  pocket.  After  that  inexorable  movement,  she  came 
over  to  me  and  put  a  diamond  into  my  hands.  "Take  it,'"' 
she  said,  "and  be  gone." 

"  'We  exchanged  values,  and  I  made  my  bow  and  went. 
The  diamond  was  quite  worth  twelve  hundred  francs  to  me. 
Out  in  the  courtyard  I  saw  a  swarm  of  flunkeys,  brushing 
their  liveries,  waxing  their  boots,  and  cleaning  sumptuous 
equipages. 

" '  "This  is  what  brings  these  people  to  me  I"  said  I  to 
myself.  "It  is  to  keep  up  this  kind  of  thing  that  they  steal 


GOBSECK  301 

millions  with  all  due  formalities,  and  betray  their  country. 
The  great  lord,  and  the  little  man  who  apes  the  great  lord, 
bathes  in  mud  once  for  all  to  save  himself  a  splash  or  two 
when  he  goes  afoot  through  the  streets." 

"  'Just  then  the  great  gates  were  opened  to  admit  a 
cabriolet.  It  was  the  same  young  fellow  who  had  brought 
the  bill  to  me. 

" '  "Sir,"  I  said,  as  he  alighted,  "here  are  two  hundred 
francs,  which  I  beg  you  to  return  to  Mine,  la  Comtesse,  and 
have  the  goodness  to  tell  her  that  1  hold  the  pledge  which 
she  deposited  with  me  this  morning  at  her  disposition  for  a 
week." 

"  'He  took  the  two  hundred  francs,  and  an  ironical  smile 
stole  over  his  face ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  said,  "Aha !  so  she  has 
paid  it,  has  she?  .  .  .  Faith,  so  much  the  better!"  I 
read  the  Countess'  future  in  his  face.  That  good-looking, 
fair-haired  young  gentleman  is  a  heartless  gambler;  he  will 
ruin  himself,  ruin  her,  ruin  her  husband,  ruin  the  chil- 
dren, eat  up  their  portions,  and  work  more  havoc  in  Parisian 
salons  than  a  whole  battery  of  howitzers  in  a  regiment. 

"  'I  went  back  to  see  Mile.  Fanny  in  the  Rue  Montmartre, 
climbed  a  very  steep,  narrow  staircase,  and  reached  a  two- 
roomed  dwelling  on  the  fifth  floor.  Everything  was  as  neat 
as  a  new  ducat.  I  did- not  see  a  speck  of  dust  on  the  furni- 
ture in  the  first  room,  where  Mile.  Fanny  was  sitting.  Mile. 
Fanny  herself  was  a  young  Parisian  girl,  quietly  dressed,  with 
a  delicate  fresh  face,  and  a  winning  look.  The  arrangement 
of  her  neatly  brushed  chestnut  hair  in  a  double  curve  on  her 
forehead  lent  a  refined  expression  to  blue  eyes,  clear  as  crys- 
tal. The  broad  daylight  streaming  in  through  the  short  cur- 
tains against  the  window  pane  fell  with  softened  light  on 
her  girlish  face.  A  pile  of  shaped  pieces  of  linen  told  me 
that  she  was  a  sempstress.  She  looked  like  a  spirit  of  soli- 
tude. When  I  held  out  the  bill,  I  remarked  that  she  had  not 
been  at  home  when  I  called  in  the  morning. 

" '  "But  the  money  was  left  with  the  porter's  wife,"  said 
she. 


302  GOBSECK 

"  'I  pretended  not  to  understand. 

" '  "You  go  out  early,  mademoiselle,  it  seems." 

" '  "I  very  seldom  leave  my  room ;  but  when  you  work  all 
night,  you  are  obliged  to  take  a  bath  sometimes." 

"  'I  looked  at  her.  A  glance  told  me  all  about  her  life. 
Here  was  a  girl  condemned  by  misfortune  to  toil,  a  girl  who 
came  of  honest  farmer  folk,  for  she  had  still  a  freckle  or  two 
that  told  of  country  birth.  There  was  an  indefinable  atmos- 
phere of  goodness  about  her;  I  felt  as  if  I  were  breathing 
sincerity  and  frank  innocence.  It  was  refreshing  to  my 
lungs.  Poor  innocent  child,  she  had  faith  in  something; 
there  was  a  crucifix  and  a  sprig  or  two  of  green  box  above 
her  poor  little  painted  wooden  bedstead;  I  felt  touched,  or 
somewhat  inclined  that  way.  I  felt  ready  to  offer  to  charge 
no  more  than  twelve  per  cent,  and  so  give  something  towards 
establishing  her  in  a  good  way  of  business. 

" '  "But  maybe  she  has  a  little  youngster  of  a  cousin,"  I 
said  to  myself,  "who  would  raise  money  on  her  signature  and 
sponge  on  the  poor  girl." 

'''  'So  I  went  away,  keeping  my  generous  impulses  well 
under  control;  for  I  have  frequently  had  occasion  to  observe 
that  when  benevolence  does  no  harm  to  him  who  gives,  it  is 
the  ruin  of  him  who  takes.  When  you  came  in  I  was  think- 
ing that  Fanny  Malvaut  would  make  a  nice  little  wife;  I 
was  thinking  of  the  contrast  between  her  pure,  lonely  life 
and  the  life  of  the  Countess — she  has  sunk  as  low  as  a  bill 
of  exchange  already,  she  will  sink  to  the  lowest  depths  of 
degradation  before  she  has  done  !' — I  scrutinized  him  during 
the  deep  silence  that  followed,  but  in  a  moment  he  spoke 
again.  'Well,'  he  said,  'do  you  think  that  it  is  nothing  to 
have  this  power  of  insight  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
human  heart,  to  embrace  so  many  lives,  to  see  the  naked 
truth  underlying  it  all?  There  are  no  two  dramas  alike: 
there  are  hideous  sores,  deadly  chagrins,  love  scenes,  misery 
that  soon  will  lie  under  the  ripples  of  the  Seine,  young  men's 
joys  that  lead  to  the  scaffold,  the  laughter  of  despair,  and 
sumptuous  banquets.  Yesterday  it  was  a  tragedy.  A  worthy 


GOBSECK  303 

soul  of  a  father  drowned  himself  because  he  could  not  sup- 
port his  family.  To-morrow  is  a  comedy;  some  youngster 
will  try  to  rehearse  the  scene  of  M.  Dimanche,  brought  up  to 
date.  You  have  heard  people  extol  the  eloquence  of  our  lat- 
ter day  preachers;  now  and  again  I  have  wasted  my  time  by 
going  to  hear  them ;  they  produced  a  change  in  my  opinions, 
but  in  my  conduct  (as  somebody  said,  I  can't  recollect  his 
name),  in  my  conduct — never! — Well,  well;  these  good 
priests  and  your  Mirabeaus  and  Vergniauds  and  the  rest  of 
them,  are  mere  stammering  beginners  compared  with  these 
orators  of  mine. 

"  'Often  it  is  some  girl  in  love,  some  gray-headed  merchant 
on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  some  mother  with  a  son's  wrong- 
doing to  conceal,  some  starving  artist,  some  great  man  whose 
influence  is  on  the  wane,  and,  for  lack  of  money,  is  like  to 
lose  the  fruit  of  all  his  labors — the  power  of  their  pleading 
has  made  me  shudder.  Sublime  actors  such  as  these  play 
for  me,  for  an  audience  of  one,  and  they  cannot  deceive  me.  I 
can  look  into  their  inmost  thoughts,  and  read  them  as  God 
reads  them.  Nothing  is  hidden  from  me.  Nothing  is  refused 
to  the  holder  of  the  purse-strings  to  loose  and  to  bind.  I 
am  rich  enough  to  buy  the  consciences  of  those  who  control 
the  action  of  ministers,  from  their  office  boys  to  their  mis- 
tresses. Is  not  that  power? — I  can  possess  the  fairest 
women,  receive  their  softest  caresses;  is  not  that  Pleasure? 
And  is  not  your  whole  social  economy  summed  up  in  terms 
of  Power  and  Pleasure? 

"  'There  are  ten  of  us  in  Paris,  silent,  unknown  kings,  the 
arbiters  of  your  destinies.  What  is  life  but  a  machine  set  in 
motion  by  money?  Know  this  for  certain — methods  are  al- 
ways confounded  with  results ;  you  will  never  succeed  in  sepa- 
rating the  soul  from  the  senses,  spirit  from  matter.  Gold 
is  the  spiritual  basis  of  existing  society. — The  ten  of  us  are 
bound  by  the  ties  of  common  interest;  we  meet  on  certain 
days  of  the  week  at  the  Cafe  Themis  near  the  Pont  Neuf, 
and  there,  in  conclave,  we  reveal  the  mysteries  of  finance. 
No  fortune  can  deceive  us;  we  are  in  possession  of  family 


304  GOBSEGK 

secrets  in  all  directions.  We  keep  a  kind  of  Black  Book,  in 
which  we  note  the  most  important  bills  issued,  drafts  on  pub- 
lic credit,  or  on  banks,  or  given  and  taken  in  the  course  of 
business.  We  are  the  Casuists  of  the  Paris  Bourse,  a  kind  of 
Inquisition  weighing  and  analyzing  the  most  insignificant 
actions  of  every  man  of  any  fortune,  and  our  forecasts  are 
infallible.  One  of  us  looks  out  over  the  judicial  world,  one 
over  the  financial,  another  surveys  the  administrative,  and 
yet  another  the  business  world.  I  myself  keep  an  eye  on  eldest 
sons,  artists,  people  in  the  great  world,  and  gamblers — on  the 
most  sensational  side  of  Paris.  Every  one  who  comes  to  us  lets 
us  into  his  neighbor's  secrets.  Thwarted  passion  and  morti- 
fied vanity  are  great  babblers.  Vice  and  disappointment  and 
vindictiveness  are  the  best  of  all  detectives.  My  colleagues, 
like  myself,  have  enjoyed  all  things,  are  sated  with  all  things, 
and  have  reached  the  point  when  power  and  money  are  loved 
for  their  own  sake. 

"  'Here/  he  said,  indicating  his  bare,  chilly  room,  'here 
the  most  high-mettled  gallant,  who  chafes  at  a  word  and 
draws  swords  for  a  syllable  elsewhere,  will  entreat  with 
clasped  hands.  There  is  no  city  merchant  so  proud,  no  woman 
so  vain  of  her  beauty,  no  soldier  of  so  bold  a  spirit,  but  that 
they  entreat  me  here,  one  and  all,  with  tears  of  rage  or  an- 
guish in  their  eyes.  Here  they  kneel — the  famous  artist, 
and  the  man  of  letters,  whose  name  will  go  down  to  posterity. 
Here,  in  short'  (he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  forehead),  'all  the 
inheritances  and  all  the  concerns  of  all  Paris  are  weighed  in 
the  balance.  Are  you  still  of  the  opinion  that  there  are  no 
delights  behind  the  blank  mask  which  so  often  has  amazed 
you  by  its  impassiveness  ?'  he  asked,  stretching  out  that  livid 
face  which  reeked  of  money. 

"I  went  back  to  my  room,  feeling  stupefied.  The  little, 
wizened  old  man  had  grown  great.  He  had  been  metamor- 
phosed under  my  eyes  into  a  strange  visionary  symbol;  he 
had  come  to  be  the  power  of  gold  personified.  I  shrank,  shud- 
dering, from  life  and  my  kind. 

"  'Is  it  really  so  ?'  I  thought ;  'must  everything  be  resolved 
into  gold?' 


GOBSECK  305 

*'I  remember  that  it  was  long  before  I  slept  that  night. 
I  saw  heaps  of  gold  all  about  me.  My  thoughts  were  full  of 
the  lovely  Countess;  I  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  the  vision 
completely  eclipsed  another  quiet,  innocent  figure,  the  figure 
of  the  woman  who  had  entered  upon  a  life  of  toil  and  ob- 
scurity; but  on  the  morrow,  through  the  clouds  of  slumber, 
Fanny's  sweet  face  rose  before  me  in  all  its  beauty,  and  I 
thought  of  nothing  else." 

"Will  you  take  a  glass  of  eau  sucree  ?"  asked  the  Vicomtesse, 
interrupting  Derville. 

"I  should  be  glad  of  it." 

"But  I  can  see  nothing  in  this  that  can  touch  our  con- 
cerns," said  Mme.  de  Grandlieu,  as  she  rang  the  bell. 

"Sardanapalus !"  cried  Derville,  flinging  out  his  favorite 
invocation.  "Mademoiselle  Camille  will  be  wide  awake  in 
a  moment  if  I  say  that  her  happiness  depended  not  so  long 
ago  upon  Daddy  Gobseck;  but  as  the  old  gentleman  died  at 
the  age  of  ninety,  M.  de  Eestaud  will  soon  be  in  possession 
of  a  handsome  fortune.  This  requires  some  explanation.  As 
for  Fanny  Malvaut,  you  know  her ;  she  is  my  wife." 

"Poor  fellow,  he  would  admit  that,  with  his  usual  frank- 
ness, with  a  score  of  people  to  hear  him !"  said  the  Vicomtesse. 

"I  would  proclaim  it  to  the  universe,"  said  the  attorney. 

"Go  on,  drink  your  glass,  my  poor  Derville.  You  will 
never  be  anything  but  the  happiest  and  the  best  of  men." 

"I  left  you  in  the  Rue  du  Helder,"  remarked  the  uncle, 
raising  his  face  after  a  gentle  doze.  "You  had  gone  to  see 
a  Countess;  what  have  you  done  with  her?" 

"A  few  days  after  my  conversation  with  the  old  Dutch- 
man," Derville  continued,  "I  sent  in  my  thesis,  and  became 
first  a  licentiate  in  law,  and  afterwards  an  advocate.  The 
old  miser's  opinion  of  me  went  up  considerably.  He  con- 
sulted me  (gratuitously)  on  all  the  ticklish  bits  of  business 
which  he  undertook  when  he  had  made  quite  sure  how  he 
stood,  business  which  would  have  seemed  unsafe  to  any  or- 
VOL.  5—44 


306  GOBSECK 

dinary  practitioner.  This  man,  over  whom  no  one  appeared 
to  have  the  slightest  influence,  listened  to  my  advice  with 
something  like  repect.  It  is  true  that  he  always  found  that 
it  turned  out  very  well. 

"At  length  I  became  head-clerk  in  the  office  where  I  had 
worked  for  three  years  and  then  I  left  the  Eue  des  Gres  for 
rooms  in  my  employer's  house.  I  had  my  board  and  lodging 
and  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  per  month.  It  was  a  great 
day  for  me ! 

"When  I  went  to  bid  the  usurer  good-bye,  he  showed  no 
sign  of  feeling,  he  was  neither  cordial  nor  sorry  to  lose  me, 
he  did  not  ask  me  to  come  to  see  him,  and  only  gave  me 
one  of  those  glances  which  seemed  in  some  sort  to  reveal  a 
power  of  second-sight. 

"By  the  end  of  a  week  my  old  neighbor  came  to  see  me 
with  a  tolerably  thorny  bit  of  business,  an  expropriation,  and 
he  continued  to  ask  my  advice  with  as  much  freedom  as  if 
he  paid  for  it. 

"My  principal  was  a  man  of  pleasure  and  expensive  tastes ; 
before  the  second  year  (1818-1819)  was  out  he  had  got  him- 
self into  difficulties,  and  was  obliged  to  sell  his  practice.  A 
professional  connection  in  those  days  did  not  fetch  the  pres- 
ent exorbitant  prices,  and  my  principal  asked  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs.  Now  an  active  man,  of  competent 
knowledge  and  intelligence,  might  hope  to  pay  off  the  capital 
in  ten  years,  paying  interest  and  living  respectably  in  the 
meantime — if  he  could  command  confidence.  But  I  was  the 
seventh  child  of  a  small  tradesman  at  Noyon,  I  had  not  a 
sou  to  my  name,  nor  personal  knowledge  of  any  capitalist 
but  Daddy  Gobseck.  An  ambitious  idea,  and  an  indefinable 
glimmer  of  hope,  put  heart  into  me.  To  Gobseck  I  betook 
myself,  and  slowly  one  evening  I  made  my  way  to  the  Eue 
des  Gres.  My  heart  thumped  heavily  as  I  knocked  at  his 
door  in  the  gloomy  house.  I  recollected  all  the  things  that 
he  used  to  tell  me,  at  a  time  when  I  myself  was  very  far  from 
suspecting  the  violence  of  the  anguish  awaiting  those  who 
crossed  his  threshold.  Now  it  was  I  who  was  about  to  beg 
and  pray  like  so  many  others. 


GOBSECK  307 

'"Well,  no,  not  that,'  I  said  to  myself;  fan  honest  man 
must  keep  his  self-respect  wherever  he  goes.  Success  is  not 
worth  cringing  for;  let  us  show  him  a  front  as  decided  as 
his  own.' 

"Daddy  Gobseck  had  taken  my  room  since  I  left  the  house, 
so  as  to  have  no  neighbor;  he  had  made  a  little  grated  win- 
dow too  in  his  door  since  then,  and  did  not  open  until  he  had 
taken  a  look  at  me  and  saw  who  I  was. 

"  'Well/  said  he,  in  his  thin,  flute  notes,  'so  your  principal 
is  selling  his  practice  ?' 

"  'How  did  you  know  that  ?'  said  I ;  'he  has  not  spoken  of 
it  as  yet  except  to  me.' 

"The  old  man's  lips  were  drawn  in  puckers,  like  a  curtain, 
to  either  corner  of  his  mouth,  as  a  soundless  smile  bore  a  hard 
glance  company. 

"  'Nothing  else  would  have  brought  you  here/  he  said 
drily,  after  a  pause,  which  I  spent  in  confusion. 

"  'Listen  to  me,  M.  Gobseck,'  I  began,  with  such  serenity 
as  I  could  assume  before  the  old  man,  who  gazed  at  me  with 
steady  eyes.  There  was  a  clear  light  burning  in  them  that 
disconcerted  me. 

"He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  bid  me  'Go  on.'  'I  know 
that  it  is  not  easy  to  work  on  your  feelings,  so  I  will  not 
waste  my  eloquence  on  the  attempt  to  put  my  position  before 
you — I  am  a  penniless  clerk,  with  no  one  to  look  to  but  you, 
and  no  heart  in  the  world  but  yours  can  form  a  clear  idea 
of  my  probable  future.  Let  us  leave  hearts  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Business  is  business,  and  business  is  not  carried  on 
with  sentimentality  like  romances.  Now  to  the  facts.  My 
principal's  practice  is  worth  in  his  hands  about  twenty  thou- 
sand francs  per  annum ;  in  my  hands,  I  think  it  would  bring 
in  forty  thousand.  He  is  willing  to  sell  it  for  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs.  And  here'  I  said,  striking  my  fore- 
head, 'I  feel  that  if  you  would  lend  me  the  purchase-money, 
I  could  clear  it  off  in  ten  years'  time.' 

"'Come,  that  is  plain  speaking,"  said  Daddy  Gobseck, 
and  he  held  out  his  hand  and  grasped  mine.  'Nobody  since 


308  GOBSECK 

I  have  been  in  business  has  stated  the  motives  of  his  visit 
more  clearly.  Guarantees?'  asked  he,  scanning  me  from 
head  to  foot.  'None  to  give/  he  added  after  a  pause.  'How- 
old  are  you?' 

"  Twenty-five  in  ten  days'  time/  said  I,  'or  I  could  not 
open  the  matter/ 

"  'Precisely/ 

"'Well?' 

"  'It  is  possible/ 

"  'My  word,  we  must  be  quick  about  it,  or  I  shall  have 
some  one  buying  over  my  head.' 

"  'Bring  your  certificate  of  birth  round  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  we  .will  talk.  I  will  think  it  over/ 

"  'Next  morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  I  stood  in  the  old  man's 
room.  He  took  the  document,  put  on  his  spectacles,  coughed, 
spat,  wrapped  himself  up  in  his  black  greatcoat,  and  read 
the  whole  certificate  through  from  beginning  to  end.  Then 
he  turned  it  over  and  over,  looked  at  me,  coughed  again, 
fidgeted  about  in  his  chair,  and  said,  'We  will  try  to  arrange 
this  bit  of  business/ 

"I  trembled. 

"  'I  make  fifty  per  cent  on  my  capital/  he  continued, 
'sometimes  I  make  a  hundred,  two  hunderd,  five  hundred  per 
cent/ 

"I  turned  pale  at  the  words. 

"  'But  as  we  are  acquaintances,  I  shall  be  satisfied  to  take 
twelve  and  a  half  per  cent  per' — (he  hesitated) — 'well,  yes, 
from  you  I  would  be  content  to  take  thirteen  per  cent  per 
annum.  Will  that  suit  you?' 

"  'Yes/  I  answered. 

"  'But  if  it  is  too  much,  stick  up  for  yourself,  Grotius !' 
(a  name  he  jokingly  gave  me).    'When  I  ask  you  for  thirteen . 
per  cent,  it  is  all  in  the  way  of  business;  look  into  it,  see  if 
you  can  pay  it;  I  don't  like  a  man  to  agree  too  easily.    Is  it 
too  much?' 

"  'No/  said  I,  'I  will  make  up  for  it  by  working  a  little 
harder/ 


GOBSECK  309 

your  clients  will  pay  for  it!'  said  lie,  looking  at 
me  wickedly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes. 

"  'No,  by  all  the  devils  in  hell !'  cried  I,  'it  shall  be  I  who 
will  pay.  I  would  sooner  cut  my  hand  off  than  flay  people/ 

"  'Good-night/  said  Daddy  Gobseck. 

"  'Why,  fees  are  all  according  to  scale/  I  added. 

"  'Not  for  compromises  and  settlements  out  of  Court, 
and  cases  where  litigants  come  to  terms/  said  he.  'You  can 
send  in  a  bill  for  thousands  of  francs,  six  thousand  even  at 
a  swoop  (it  depends  on  the  importance  of  the  case),  for  con- 
ferences with  So-and-so,  and  expenses,  and  drafts,  and  me- 
morials, and  your  jargon.  A  man  must  learn  to  look  out 
for  business  of  this  kind.  I  will  recommend  you  as  a  most 
competent,  clever  attorney.  I  will  send  you  such  a  lot  of 
work  of  this  sort  that  your  colleagues  will  be  fit  to  burst  with 
envy.  Werbrust,  Palma,  and  Gigonnet,  my  cronies,  shall 
hand  over  their  expropriations  to  you;  they  have  plenty  of 
them,  the  Lord  knows!  So  you  will  have  two  practices — 
the  one  you  are  buying,  and  the  other  I  will  build  up  for 
you.  You  ought  almost  to  pay  me  fifteen  per  cent  on  my 
loan/ 

"  'So  be  it,  but  no  more/  said  I,  with  the  firmness  which 
means  that  a  man  is  determined  not  to  concede  another 
point. 

"Daddy  Gobseck's  face  relaxed ;  he  looked  pleased  with  me. 

"  'I  shall  pay  the  money  over  to  your  principal  myself/ 
said  he,  'so  as  to  establish  a  lien  on  the  purchase  and  cau- 
tion-money/ 

"  'Oh,  anything  you  like  in  the  way  of  guarantees/ 

"  'And  besides  that,  you  will  give  me  bills  for  the  amount 
made  payable  to  a  third  party  (name  left  blank),  fifteen  bills 
of  ten  thousand  francs  each/ 

"  'Well,  so  long  as  it  is  acknowledged  in  writing  that  this 
is  a  double ' 

"  'No  !'  Gobseck  broke  in  upon  me.  'No !  Why  should  I 
trust  you  any  more  than  you  trust  me?' 

"I  kept  silence. 


310  GOBSECK 

" ' And  furthermore/  he  continued,  with  a  sort  of  good 
humor,  'you  will  give  me  your  advice  without  charging  fees 
as  long  as  I  live,  will  you  not?' 

"  'So  be  it ;  so  long  as  there  is  no  outlay.' 

"  'Precisely/  said  he.  'Ah,  by  the  by,  you  will  allow  me 
to  go  to  see  you?'  (Plainly  the  old  man  found  it  not  so 
easy  to  assume  the  air  of  good-humor.) 

"  'I  shall  always  be  glad.' 

"'Ah!  yes,  but  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  arrange  of  a 
morning.  You  will  have  your  affairs  to  attend  to,  and  I  have 
mine.' 

"  'Then  come  in  the  evening/ 

"  'Oh,  no !'  he  answered  briskly,  'you  ought  to  go  into 
society  and  see  your  clients,  and  I  myself  have  my  friends  at 
my  cafe.' 

"  'His  friends !'  thought  I  to  myself. — 'Very  well/  said 
I,  'why  not  come  at  dinner-time?' 

"  'That  is  the  time/  said  Gobseck,  'after  'Change,  at  five 
o'clock.  Good,  you  will  see  me  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays. 
We  will  talk  over  business  like  a  pair  of  friends.  Aha !  I 
am  gay  sometimes.  Just  give  me  the  wing  of  a  partridge 
and  a  glass  of  champagne,  and  we  will  have  our  chat  together. 
I  know  a  great  many  things  that  can  be  told  now  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time;  I  will  teach  you  to  know  men,  and  what  is 
more — women !' 

"  'Oh !  a  partridge  and  a  glass  of  champagne  if  you  like.' 

"  'Don't  do  anything  foolish,  or  I  shall  lose  my  faith  in 
you.  And  don't  set  up  housekeeping  in  a  grand  way.  Just 
one  old  general  servant.  I  will  come  and  see  that  you  keep 
your  health.  I  have  capital  invested  in  your  head,  he !  he !  so  I 
am  bound  to  look  after  you.  There,  come  round  in  the  even- 
ing and  bring  your  principal  with  you !' 

"  'Would  you  mind  telling  me,  if  there  is  no  harm  in  ask- 
ing, what  was  the  good  of  my  birth  certificate  in  this  busi- 
ness?' I  asked,  when  the  little  old  man  and  I  stood  on  the 
doorstep. 

"Jean-Esther  Van  Gobseck  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled 


GOBSECK  311 

maliciously,  and  said,  'What  blockheads  youngsters  are! 
Learn,  master  attorney  (for  learn  you  must  if  you  don't  mean 
to  be  taken  in),  that  integrity  and  brains  in  a  man  under 
thirty  are  commodities  which  can  be  mortgaged.  After  that 
age  there  is  no  counting  on  a  man.' 
"And  with  that  he  shut  the  door. 

"Three  months  later  I  was  an  attorney.  Before  very  long, 
madame,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  undertake  the  suit  for 
the  recovery  .of  your  estates.  I  won  the  day,  and  my  name 
became  known.  In  spite  of  the  exorbitant  rate  of  interest, 
I  paid  off  Gobseck  in  less  than  five  years.  I  married  Fanny 
Malvaut,  whom  I  loved  with  all  my  heart.  There  was  a 
parallel  between  her  life  and  mine,  between  our  hard  work 
and  our  luck,  which  increased  the  strength^  of  feeling  on 
either  side.  One  of  her  uncles,  a  well-to-do  farmer,  died  and 
left  her  seventy  thousand  francs,  which  helped  to  clear  off 
the  loan.  From  that  day  my  life  has  been  nothing  but  happi- 
ness and  prosperity.  Nothing  is  more  utterly  uninteresting 
than  a  happy  man,  so  let  us  say  no  more  on  that  head,  and 
return  to  the  rest  of  the  characters. 

"About  a  year  after  the  purchase  of  the  practice,  I  was 
dragged  into  a  bachelor  breakfast-party  given  by  one  of 
our  number  who  had  lost  a  bet  to  a  young  man  greatly  in 
vogue  in  the  fashionable  world.  M.  de  Trailles,  the  flower 
of  the  dandyism  of  that  day,  enjoyed  a  prodigious  reputa- 
tion." 

"But  he  is  still  enjoying  it,"  put  in  the  Comte  de  Born. 
"No  one  wears  his  clothes  with  a  finer  air,  nor  drives  a  tan- 
dem with  a  better  grace.  It  is  Maxime's  gift ;  he  can  gamble, 
eat,  and  drink  more  gracefully  than  any  man  in  the  world. 
He  is  a  judge  of  horses,  hats,  and  pictures.  All  the  women 
lose  their  heads  over  him.  He  always  spends  something  like 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  no  creature  can  dis- 
cover that  he  has  an  acre  of  land  or  a  single  dividend  war- 
rant. The  typical  knight  errant  of  our  salons,  our  boudoirs, 
our  boulevards,  an  amphibian  half-way  between  a  man  and 


312  GOBSECK 

a  woman — Maxime  de  Trailles  is  a  singular  being,  fit  for 
anj thing,  and  good  for  nothing,  quite  as  capable  of  perpe- 
trating a  benefit  as  of  planning  a  crime;  sometimes  base, 
sometimes  noble,  more  often  bespattered  with,  mire  than  be- 
sprinkled with  blood,  knowing  more  of  anxiety  than  of  re- 
morse, more  concerned  with  his  digestion  than  with  any  men- 
tal process,  shamming  passion,  feeling  nothing.  Maxime  de 
Trailles  is  a  brilliant  link  between  the  hulks  and  the  best 
society;  he  belongs  to  the  eminently  intelligent  class  from 
which  a  Mirabeau,  or  a  Pitt,  or  a  Richelieu  springs  at  times, 
though  it  is  more  wont  to  produce  Counts  of  Horn,  Fouquier- 
Tinvilles,  and  Coignards." 

"Well/*  pursued  Derville,  when  he  had  heard  the  Vi- 
comtesse's  brother  to  the  end,  "I  had  heard  a  good  deal  about 
this  individual^from  poor  old  Goriot,  a  client  of  mine;  and 
I  had  already  been  at  some  pains  to  avoid  the  dangerous 
honor  of  his  acquaintance,  for  I  came  across  him  sometimes 
in  society.  Still,  my  chum  was  so  pressing  about  this  break- 
fast-party of  his,  that  I  could  not  well  get  out  of  it,  unless 
I  wished  to  earn  a  name  for  squeamishness.  Madame,  you 
could  hardly  imagine  what  a  bachelor's  breakfast-party  is 
like.  It  means  superb  display  and  a  studied  refinement  sel- 
dom seen;  the  luxury  of  a  miser  when  vanity  leads  him  to 
be  sumptuous  for  a  day. 

"You  are  surprised  as  you  enter  the  room  at  the  neatness 
of  the  table,  dazzling  by  reason  of  its  silver  and  crystal  and 
linen  damask.  Life  is  here  in  full  bloom;  the  young  fellows 
are  graceful  to  behold;  they  smile  and  talk  in  low,  demure 
voices  like  so  many  brides;  everything  about  them  looks 
girlish.  Two  hours  later  you  might  take  the  room  for  a 
battlefield  after  the  fight.  Broken  glasses,  serviettes 
crumpled  and  torn  to  rags  lie  strewn  about  among  the  nau- 
seous-looking remnants  of  food  on  the  dishes.  There  is  an 
uproar  that  stuns  you,  jesting  toasts,  a  fire  of  witticisms  and 
bad  jokes;  faces  are  empurpled,  eyes  inflamed  and  expres- 
sionless; unintentional  confidences  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 
Bottles  are  smashed,  and  songs  trolled  out  in  the  height  of  a 


GOBSECK  313 

diabolical  racket;  men  call  each  other  out,  hang  on  each 
other's  necks,  or  fall  to  fisticuffs ;  the  room  is  full  of  a  horrid, 
close  scent  made  up  of  a  hundred  odors,  and  noise  enough  for 
a  hundred  voices.  No  one  has  any  notion  of  what  he  is  eat- 
ing or  drinking  or  saying.  Some  are  depressed,  others 
babble;  one  will  turn  monomaniac,  repeating  the  same  word 
over  and  over  again  like  a  bell  set  jangling;  another  tries  to 
keep  the  tumult  within  bounds;  the  steadiest  will  propose 
an  orgy.  If  any  one  in  possession  of  his  faculties  should  come 
in,  he  would  think  that  he  had  interrupted  a  Bacchanalian 
rite. 

"It  was  in  the  thick  of  such  a  chaos  that  M.  de  Trailles 
tried  to  insinuate  himself  into  my  good  graces.  My  head 
was  fairly  clear,  I  was  upon  my  guard.  As  for  him,  though 
he  pretended  to  be  decently  drunk,  he  was  perfectly  cool,  and 
knew  very  well  what  he  was  about.  How  it  was  done  I  do 
not  know,  but  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  when  we  left 
Grignon's  rooms  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  M.  de 
Trailles  had  thoroughly  bewitched  me.  I  had  given  him  my 
promise  that  I  would  introduce  him  the  next  day  to  our 
Papa  Gobseck.  The  words  'honor,'  'virtue,'  'countess,'  Tion- 
est  woman,'  and  'ill-luck'  were  mingled  in  his  discourse  with 
magical  potency,  thanks  to  that  golden  tongue  of  his. 

"When  I  awoke  next  morning,  and  tried  to  recollect  what 
I  had  done  the  day  before,  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
I  could  make  a  connected  tale  from  my  impressions.  At  last, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  daughter  of  one  of  my  clients  was 
in  danger  of  losing  her  reputation,  together  with  her  hus- 
band's love  and  esteem,  if  she  could  not  get  fifty  thousand 
francs  together  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  There  had 
been  gaming  debts,  and  carriage-builders'  accounts,  money 
lost  to  Heaven  knows  whom.  My  magician  of  a  boon  com- 
panion had  impressed  it  upon  me  that  she  was  rich  enough 
to  make  good  these  reverses  by  a  few  years  of  economy.  But 
only  now  did  I  begin  to  guess  the  reasons  of  his  urgency.  I 
confess,  to  my  shame,  that  I  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt 
but  that  it  was  a  matter  of  importance  that  Daddy  Gobseck 


314  GOBSECK 

should  make  it  up  with  this  dandy.  I  was  dressing  when  the 
young  gentleman  appeared. 

"  'M.  le  Comte/  said  I,  after  the  usual  greetings,  'I  fail 
to  see  why  you  should  need  me  to  effect  an  introduction  to 
Van  Gobseck,  the  most  civil  and  smooth-spoken  of  capitalists. 
Money  will  be  forthcoming  if  he  has  any,  or  rather,  if  you 
can  give  him  adequate  security.' 

"  'Monsieur/  said  he,  'it  does  not  enter  into  my  thoughts 
to  force  you  to  do  me  a  service,  even  though  you  have  passed 
your  word.' 

"  'Sardanapalus !'  said  I  to  myself,  'am  I  going  to  let  that 
fellow  imagine  that  I  will  not  keep  my  word  with  him?' 

"  '1  had  the  honor  -of  telling  you  yesterday,'  said  he,  'that 
I  had  fallen  out  with  Daddy  Gobseck  most  inopportunely; 
and  as  there  is  scarcely  another  man  in  Paris  who  can  come 
down  on  the  nail  with  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  at  the 
end  of  the  month,  I  begged  of  you  to  make  my  peace  with 
him.  But  let  us  say  no  more  about  it ' 

"M.  de  Trailles  looked  at  me  with  civil  insult  in  his  ex- 
pression, and  made  as  if  he  would  take  his  leave. 

"  'I  am  ready  to  go  with  you,'  said  I. 

"When  we  reached  the  Eue  des  Gres,  my  dandy  looked 
about  him  with  a  circumspection  and  uneasiness  that  set  me 
wondering.  His  face  grew  livid,  flushed,  and  yellow,  turn  and 
turn  about,  and  by  the  time  that  Gobseck's  door  came  in  sight 
the  perspiration  stood  in  drops  on  his  forehead.  We  were 
just  getting  out  of  the  cabriolet,  when  a  hackney  cab  turned 
into  the  street.  My  companion's  hawk  eye  detected  a  woman 
in  the  depths  of  the  vehicle.  His  face  lighted  up  with  a 
gleam  of  almost  savage  joy;  he  called  to  a  little  boy  who 
was  passing,  and  gave  him  his  horse  to  hold.  Then  we  went 
up  to  the  old  bill  discounter. 

"  M.  Gobseck/  said  I,  'I  have  brought  one  of  my  most 
intimate  friends  to  see  you  (whom  I  trust  as  I  would  trust 
the  Devil/  I  added  for  the  old  man's  private  ear).  'To  oblige 
me  you  will  do  your  best  for  him  (at  the  ordinary  rate),  and 
pull  him  out  of  his  difficulty  (if  it  suits  your  convenience)/ 


GOBSECK  315 

"M.  de  Trailles  made  his  bow  to  Gobseck,  took  a  seat,  and 
listened  to  us  with  a  courtier-like  attitude;  its  charming 
humility  would  have  touched  your  heart  to  see,  but  my  Gob- 
seck sits  in  his  chair  by  the  fireside  without  moving  a  muscle, 
or  changing  a  feature.  He  looked  very  like  the  statue  of  Vol- 
taire under  the  peristyle  of  the  Theatre-Frangais,  as  you  see 
it  of  an  evening;  he  had  partly  risen  as  if  to  bow,  and  the 
skull  cap  that  covered  the  top  of  his  head,  and  the  narrow 
strip  of  sallow  forehead  exhibited,  completed  his  likeness  to 
the  man  of  marble. 

"  'I  have  no  money  to  spare  except  for  my  own  clients,' 
said  he. 

"  'So  you  are  cross  because  I  may  have  tried  in  other  quar- 
ters to  ruin  myself?'  laughed  the  Count. 

"  'Ruin  yourself !'  repeated  Gobseck  ironically. 

"  'Were  you  about  to  remark  that  it  is  impossible  to  ruin 
a  man  who  has  nothing?'  inquired  the  dandy.  'Why,  I  defy 
you  to  find  a  better  stock  in  Paris !'  he  cried,  swinging  round 
on  his  heels. 

"This  half-earnest  buffoonery  produced  not  the  slightest 
effect  upon  Gobseck. 

"  'Am  I  not  on  intimate  terms  with  the  Ronquerolles,  the 
Marsays,  the  Franchessinis,  the  two  Vandenesses,  the 
Ajuda-Pintos, — all  the  most  fashionable  young  men  in  Paris, 
in  short?  A  prince  and  an  ambassador  (you  know  them 
both)  are  my  partners  at  play.  I  draw  my  revenues  from 
London  and  Carlsbad  and  Baden  and  Bath.  Is  not  this  the 
most  brilliant  of  all  industries!' 

"  'True.' 

"  'You  make  a  sponge  of  me,  begad !  you  do.  You  en- 
courage me  to  go  and  swell  myself  out  in  society,  so  that  you 
can  squeeze  me  when  I  am  hard  up;  but  you  yourselves  are 
sponges,  just  as  I  am,  and  death  will  give  you  a  squeeze  some 
day.' 

"  'That  is  possible.' 

"'If  there  were  no  spendthrifts,  what  would  become  of 
you?  The  pair  of  us  are  like  soul  and  body.' 


316  GOBSECK 

"  'Precisely  so.' 

"  'Come,  now,  give  us  your  hand,  Grandaddy  Gobseck, 
and  be  magnanimous  if  this  is  "true"  and  "possible"  and 
"precisely  so."  ; 

"  'You  come  to  me,'  the  usurer  answered  coldly,  'because 
Girard,  Palma,  Werbrust,  and  Gigonnet  are  full  up  of  your 
paper ;  they  are  offering  it  at  a  loss  of  fifty  per  cent ;  and  as 
it  is  likely  they  only  gave  you  half  the  figure  on  the  face 
of  the  bills,  they  are  not  worth  five-and-twenty  per  cent  of 
their  supposed  value.  I  am  your  most  obedient !  Can  I  in 
common  decency  lend  a  stiver  to  a  man  who  owes  thirty 
thousand  francs,  and  has  not  one  farthing?'  Gobseck  con- 
tinued. 'The  day  before  yesterday  you  lost  ten  thousand 
francs  at  a  ball  at  the  Baron  de  Nucingen's/ 

"  'Sir/  said  the  Count,  with  rare  impudence,  'my  affairs 
are  no  concern  of  yours,'  and  he  looked  the  old  man  up  and 
down.  'A  man  has  no  debts  till  payment  is  due.' 

"  'True/ 

"  'My  bills  will  be  duly  met/ 

"  'That  is  possible/ 

"  'And  at  this  moment  the  question  between  you  and  me  is 
simply  whether  the  security  I  am  going  to  offer  is  sufficient 
for  the  sum  I  have  come  to  borrow/ 

"  'Precisely/ 

"A  cab  stopped  at  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  wheels  filled 
the  room. 

"  'I  will  bring  something  directly  which  perhaps  will 
satisfy  you/  cried  the  young  man,  and  he  left  the  room. 

"  'Oh !  my  son/  exclaimed  Gobseck,  rising  to  his  feet,  and 
stretching  out  his  arms  to  me,  'if  he  has  good  security,  you 
have  saved  my  life.  It  would  be  the  death  of  me.  Werbrust 
and  Gigonnet  imagined  that  they  were  going  to  play  off  a 
trick  on  me;  and  now,  thanks  to  you,  I  shall  have  a  good 
laugh  at  their  expense  to-night/ 

"There  was  something  frightful  about  the  old  man's 
ecstasy.  It  was  the  one  occasion  when  he  opened  his  heart 
to  me;  and  that  flash  of  joy,  swift  though  it  was,  will  never 
be  effaced  from  my  memory. 


GOBSECK  317 

"  'Favor  me  so  far  as  to  stay  here/  he  added.  'I  am 
armed,  and  a  sure  shot.  I  have  gone  tiger-hunting,  and 
fought  on  the  deck  when  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  win 
or  die;  but  I  don't  care  to  trust  yonder  elegant  scoundrel/ 

"He  sat  down  again  in  his  armchair  before  his  bureau, 
and  his  face  grew  pale  and  impassive  as  before. 

"  'Ah !'  he  continued,  turning  to  me,  'you  will  see  that 
lovely  creature  I  once  told  you  about ;  I  can  hear  a  fine  lady's 
step  in  the  corridor;  it  is  she,  no  doubt;'  and,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  young  man  came  in  with  a  woman  on  his  arm. 
I  recognized  the  Countess,  whose  levee  Gobseck  had  de- 
scribed for  me,  one  of  old  Goriot's  two  daughters. 

"The  Countess  did  not  see  me  at  first;  I  stayed  where  I 
was  in  the  window  bay,  with  my  face  against  the  pane;  but 
I  saw  her  give  Maxime  a  suspicious  glance  as  she  came  into 
the  money-lender's  damp,  dark  room.  So  beautiful  she  was, 
that  in  spite  of  her  faults  I  felt  sorry  for  her.  There  was 
a  terrible  storm  of  anguish  in  her  heart ;  her  haughty,  proud 
features  were  drawn  and  distorted  with  pain  which  she  strove 
in  vain  to  disguise.  The  young  man  had  come  to  be  her  evil 
genius.  I  admired  Gobseck,  whose  perspicacity  had  fore- 
seen their  future  four  years  ago  at  the  first  bill  which  she 
endorsed. 

"  'Probably,'  said  I  to  myself,  'this  monster  with  the  angel 
face  controls  every  possible  spring  of  action  in  her :  rules  her 
through  vanity,  jealousy,  pleasure,  and  the  current  of  life 
in  the  world.' " 

The  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu  broke  in  on  the  story. 

"  'Why,  the  woman's  very  virtues  have  been  turned  against 
her,"  she  exclaimed.  "He  has  made  her  shed  tears  of  devo- 
tion, he  has  brought  out  the  utmost  natural  generosity  of 
woman,  and  then  abused  her  kindness  and  made  her  pay  very 
dearly  for  unhallowed  bliss." 

Derville  did  not  understand  the  signs  which  Mme.  de 
Grandlieu  made  to  him. 

"I  confess,"  he  said,  "that  I  had  no  inclination  to  shed 
tears  over  the  lot  of  this  unhappy  creature,  so  brilliant  in 


318  GOBSECK 

society,  so  repulsive  to  eyes  that  could  read  her  heart;  I 
shuddered  rather  at  the  sight  of  her  murderer,  a  young  angel 
with  such  a  clear  brow,  such  red  lips  and  white  teeth,  such 
a  winning  smile.  There  they  stood  before  their  judge,  he 
scrutinizing  them  much  as  some  fifteenth-century  Domini- 
can inquisitor  might  have  peered  into  the  dungeons  of  the 
Holy  Office  while  the  torture  was  administered  to  two  Moors. 

"The  Countess  spoke  tremulously.  'Sir/  she  said,  'is  there 
any  way  of  obtaining  the  value  of  these  diamonds,  and  of 
keeping  the  right  of  repurchase?'  She  held  out  a  jewel- 
case. 

"  'Yes,  madame/  I  put  in,  and  came  forwards. 

"She  looked  at  me,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  her  as  she 
recognized  me,  and  gave  me  the  glance  which  means,  'Say 
nothing  of  this/  all  the  world  over. 

"  'This/  said  I,  'constitutes  a  sale  with  faculty  of  redemp- 
tion, as  it  is  called,  a  formal  agreement  to  transfer  and  de- 
liver over  a  piece  of  property,  either  real  estate  or  personalty, 
for  a  given  time,  on  the  expiry  of  which  the  previous  owner 
recovers  his  title  to  the  property  in  question,  upon  payment 
of  a  stipulated  sum/ 

"She  breathed  more  freely.  The  Count  looked  black;  he 
had  grave  doubts  whether  Gobseck  would  lend  very  much  on 
the  diamonds  after  such  a  fall  in  their  value.  Gobseck,  im- 
passive as  ever,  had  taken  up  his  magnifying  glass,  and  was 
quietly  scrutinizing  the  jewels.  If  I  were  to  live  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  I  should  never  forget  the  sight  of  his  face  at  that 
moment.  There  was  a  flush  in  his  pale  cheeks;  his  eyes 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  sparkle  of  the  stones,  for  there 
was  an  unnatural  glitter  in  them.  He  rose  and  went  to  the 
light,  holding  the  diamonds  close  to  his  toothless  mouth,  as 
if  he  meant  to  devour  them;  mumbling  vague  words  over 
them,  holding  up  bracelets,  sprays,  necklaces,  and  tiaras  one 
after  another,  to  judge  their  water,  whiteness,  and  cutting; 
taking  them  out  of  the  jewel-case  and  putting  them  in  again, 
letting  the  play  of  the  light  bring  out  all  their  fires.  He 


GOBSBCK  319 

was  more  like  a  child  than  an  old  man;  or,  rather,  childhood 
and  dotage  seemed  to  meet  in  him. 

"  'Fine  stones !  The  set  would  have  fetched  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  before  the  Kevolution.  What  water! 
Genuine  Asiatic  diamonds  from  Golconda  or  Visapur.  Do 
you  know  what  they  are  worth  ?  No,  no ;  no  one  in  Paris  but 
Gobseck  can  appreciate  them.  In  the  time  of  the  Empire 
such  a  set  would  have  cost  another  two  hundred  thousand 
francs !' 

"He  gave  a  disgusted  shrug,  and  added: 

"  'But  now  diamonds  are  going  down  in  value  every  day. 
The  Brazilians  have  swamped  the  market  with  them  since 
the  Peace;  but  the  Indian  stones  are  a  better  color.  Others 
wear  them  now  besides  court  ladies.  Does  madame  go  to 
court?' 

"While  he  flung  out  these  terrible  words,  he  examined 
one  stone  after  another  with  delight  which  no  words  can  de- 
scribe. 

"  'Flawless !'  he  said.  'Here  is  a  speck !  .  .  .  here 
is  a  flaw !  .  .  .  A  fine  stone  that !' 

"His  haggard  face  was  so  lighted  up  by  the  sparkling 
jewels,  that  it  put  me  in  mind  of  a  dingy  old  mirror,  such 
as  you  see  in  country  inns.  The  glass  receives  every  lumi- 
nous image  without  reflecting  the  light,  and  a  traveler  bold 
enough  to  look  for  his  face  in  it  beholds  a  man  in  an  apo- 
plectic fit. 

"  Well  ?'  asked  the  Count,  clapping  Gobseck  on  the 
shoulder. 

"The  old  boy  trembled.  He  put  down  his  playthings  on 
his  bureau,  took  his  seat,  and  was  a  money-lender  once  more 
— hard,  cold,  and  polished  as  a  marble  column. 

"  'How  much  do  you  want  ?' 

"  ''One  hundred  thousand  francs  for  three  years,'  said  the 
Count. 

"  'That  is  possible,'  said  Gobseck,  and  then  from  a  ma- 
hogany box  (Gobseck's  jewel-case)  he  drew  out  a  faultlessly 
adjusted  pair  of  scales ! 


320  GOBSECK 

"He  weighed  the  diamonds,  calculating  the  value  of 
stones  and  setting  at  sight  (Heaven  knows  how!),  delight 
and  severity  struggling  in  the  expression  of  his  face  the 
meanwhile.  The  Countess  was  plunged  in  a  kind  of  stupor; 
to  me,  watching  her,  it  seemed  that  she  was  fathoming  the 
depths  of  the  abyss  into  which  she  had  fallen.  There  was 
remorse  still  left  in  that  woman's  soul.  Perhaps  a  hand 
held  out  in  human  charity  might  save  her.  I  would  try. 

"'Are  the  diamonds  your  personal  property,  madame?'  I 
asked  in  a  clear  voice. 

"  'Yes,  monsieur,'  she  said,  looking  at  me  with  proud  eyes. 

"  'Make  out  the  deed  of  purchase  with  power  of  redemp- 
tion, chatterbox,'  said  Gobseck  to  me,  resigning  his  chair  at 
the  bureau  in  my  favor. 

"  'Madame  is  without  doubt  a  married  woman  ?'  I  tried 
again. 

"She  nodded  abruptly. 

"  'Then  I  will  not  draw  up  the  deed,'  said  I. 

"  'And  why  not  ?'  asked  Gobseck. 

"  'Why  not  ?'  echoed  I,  as  I  drew  the  old  man  into  the  bay 
window  so  as  to  speak  aside  with  him.  'Why  not?  This 
woman  is  under  her  husband's  control ;  the  agreement  would 
be  void  in  law;  you  could  not  possibly  assert  your  ignorance 
of  a  fact  recorded  on  the  very  face  of  the  document  itself. 
You  would  be  compelled  at  once  to  produce  the  diamonds 
deposited  with  you,  according  to  the  weight,  value,  and  cut- 
ting therein  described/ 

"Gobseck  cut  me  short  with  a  nod,  and  turned  towards  the 
guilty  couple. 

"  'He  is  right !'  he  said.  'That  puts  the  whole  thing  in 
a  different  light.  Eighty  thousand  francs  down,  and  you 
leave  the  diamonds  with  me,'  he  added,  in  the  husky,  flute- 
like  voice.  'In  the  way  of  property,  possession  is  as  good  as 
a  title.' 

"  'But '  objected  the  young  man. 

"  'You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,'  continued  Gobseck,  return- 
ing the  jewel-case  to  the  lady  as  he  spoke. 


GOBSECK  321 

"  1  have  too  many  risks  to  run/ 

'  'It  would  be  better  to  throw  yourself  at  your  husband's 
feet/  I  bent  to  whisper  in  her  ear. 

"The  usurer  doubtless  knew  what  I  was  saying  from  the 
movement  of  my  lips.  He  gave  me  a  cool  glance.  The 
Count's  face  grew  livid.  The  Countess  was  visibly  wavering. 
Maxime  stepped  up  to  her,  and,  low  as  he  spoke,  I  could 
catch  the  words : 

"Adieu,  dear  Anastasie,  may  you  be  happy!  As  for  me, 
by  to-morrow  my  troubles  will  be  over.' 

"  'Sir !'  cried  the  lady,  turning  to  Gobseck,  'I  accept  your 
offer.' 

"  'Come,  now/  returned  Gobseck.  'You  have  been  a  long 
time  in  coming  to  it,  my  fair  lady.' 

"He  wrote  out  a  cheque  for  fifty  thousand  francs  on  the 
Bank  of  France,  and  handed  it  to  the  Countess. 

"  'Now/  continued  he  with  a  smile,  such  a  smile  as  you 
will  see  in  portraits  of  M.  Voltaire,  'now  I  will  give  you  the 
rest  of  the  amount  in  bills,  thirty  thousand  francs'  worth  of 
paper  as  good  as  bullion.  This  gentleman  here  has  just  said, 
"My  bills  will  be  met  when  they  are  due," '  added  he,  produc- 
ing certain  drafts  bearing  the  Count's  signature,  all  pro- 
tested the  da}r  before  at  the  request  of  some  of  the  confra- 
ternity, who  had  probably  made  them  over  to  him  (Gob- 
seck) at  a  considerably  reduced  figure. 

"The  young  man  growled  out  something,  in  which  the 
words  'Old  scoundrel !'  were  audible.  Daddy  Gobsqck  did 
not  move  an  eyebrow.  He  drew  a  pair  of  pistols  out  of  a 
pigeon-hole,  remarking  coolly: 

"  'As  the  insulted  man,  I  fire  first.' 

"  'Maxime,  you  owe  this  gentleman  an  explanation/  cried 
the  trembling  Countess  in  a  low  voice. 

"  'I  had  no  intention  of  giving  offence/  stammered 
Maxime. 

"  1  am  quite  sure  of  that/  Gobseck  answered  calmly ;  'you 
had  no  intention  of  meeting  your  bills,  that  was  all.' 

"The  Countess  rose,  bowed,  and  vanished,  with  a  great 
VOL.  5—45 


322  GOBSECK 

dread  gnawing  her,  I  doubt  not.  M.  de  Trailles  was  bound 
to  follow,  but  before  he  went  he  managed  to  say: 

"  'If  either  of  you  gentlemen  should  forget  himself,  I  will 
have  his  blood,  or  he  will  have  mine.' 

"  'Amen !'  called  Daddy  Gobseck  as  he  put  his  pistols  back 
in  their  place ;  'but  a  man  must  have  blood  in  his  veins  though 
before  he  can  risk  it,  my  son,  and  you  have  nothing  but  mud 
in  yours/ 

"When  the  door  was  closed,  and  the  two  vehicles  had  gone, 
Gobseck  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  prance  about. 

"'I  have  the  diamonds!  I  have  the  diamonds!'  he  cried 
again  and  again,  'the  beautiful  diamonds!  such  diamonds! 
and  tolerably  cheaply.  Aha !  aha !  Werbrust  and  Gigonnet, 
you  thought  you  had  old  Papa  Gobseck!  Ego  sum  papa! 
I  am  master  of  the  lot  of  you !  Paid !  paid,  principal  and 
interest !  How  silly  they  will  look  to-night  when  I  shall 
come  out  with  this  story  between  two  games  of  dominoes!' 

"The  dark  glee,  the  savage  ferocity  aroused  by  the  pos- 
session of  a  few  water-white  pebbles,  set  me  shuddering.  I 
was  dumb  with  amazement. 

"  'Aha !  There  you  are,  my  boy  !'  said  he.  'We  will  dine 
together.  We  will  have  some  fun  at  your  place,  for  I  haven't 
a  home  of  my  own,  and  these  restaurants,  with  their  broths, 
and  sauces,  and  wines,  would  poison  the  Devil  himself.' 

"Something  in  my  face  suddenly  brought  back  the  usual 
cold,  impassive  expression  to  his. 

"  'You  don't  understand  it,'  he  said,  and  sitting  down  by  the 
hearth,  he  put  a  tin  saucepan  full  of  milk  on  the  brazier. — 
'Will  you  breakfast  with  me?'  continued  he.  'Perhaps  there 
will  be  enough  here  for  two.' 

"  'Thanks,'  said  I,  'I  do  not  breakfast  till  noon.' 

"I  had  scarcely  spoken  before  hurried  footsteps  sounded 
from  the  passage.  The  stranger  stopped  at  Gobseck's  door 
and  rapped;  there  was  that  in  the  knock  which  suggested  a 
man  transported  with  rage.  Gobseck  reconnoitred  him 
through  the  grating;  then  he  opened  the  door,  and  in  came 
a  man  of  thirty-five  or  so,  judged  harmless  apparently  in 


GOBSECK  323 

spite  of  his  anger.  The  newcomer,  who  was  quite  plainly 
dressed,  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  late  Due  de  Riche- 
lieu. You  must  often  have  met  him,  he  was  the  Countess' 
husband,  a  man  with  the  aristocratic  figure  (permit  the  ex- 
pression to  pass)  peculiar  to  statesmen  of  your  faubourg. 

"  'Sir,'  said  this  person,  addressing  himself  to  Gobseck, 
who  had  quite  recovered  his  tranquillity,  'did  my  wife  go  out 
of  this  house  just  now?' 

"  'That  is  possible.' 

"  'Well,  sir  ?  do  you  not  take  my  meaning  ?' 

"  'I  have  not  the  honor  of  the  acquaintance  of  my  lady 
your  wife/  returned  Gobseck.  'I  have  had  a  good  many  vis- 
itors this  morning,  women  and  men,  and  mannish  young 
ladies,  and  young  gentlemen  who  look  like  young  ladies.  I 
should  find  it  very  hard  to  say — 

"  'A  truce  to  jesting,  sir !  I  mean  the  woman  who  has 
this  moment  gone  out  from  you.' 

"  'How  can  I  know  whether  she  is  your  wife  or  not  ?  I 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before.' 

"  'You  are  mistaken,  M.  Gobseck/  said  the  Count,  with 
profound  irony  in  his  voice.  'We  have  met  before,  one  morn- 
ing in  my  wife's^  bedroom.  You  had  come  to  demand  pay- 
ment for  a  bill — no  bill  of  hers.' 

"  'It  was  no  business  of  mine  to  inquire  what  value  she 
had  received  for  it/  said  Gobseck,  with  a  malignant  look 
at  the  Count.  'I  had  come  by  the  bill  in  the  way  of  business. 
At  the  same  time,  monsieur/  continued  Gobseck,  quietly 
pouring  coffee  into  his  bowl  of  milk,  without  a  trace  of  ex- 
citement or  hurry  in  his  voice,  'you  will  permit  me  to  observe 
that  your  right  to  enter  my  house  and  expostulate  with  me 
is  far  from  proven  to  my  mind.  I  came  of  age  in  the  sixty- 
first  year  of  the  preceding  century.' 

"  'Sir/  said  the  Count,  'you  have  just  bought  family  dia- 
monds, which  do  not  belong  to  my  wife,  for  a  mere  trifle.' 

"  'Without  feeling  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  tell  you  my 
private  affairs,  I  will  tell  you  this  much,  M.  le  Comte — if 
Mme.  la  Comtesse  has  taken  your  diamonds,  you  should  have 


324  GOBSBCK 

sent  a  circular  around  to  all  the  jewelers,  giving  them  notice 
not  to  buy  them ;  she  might  have  sold  them  separately/ 

"  'You  know  my  wife,  sir !'  roared  the  Count. 

"  'True.' 

"  'She  is  in  her  husband's  power/ 

"  'That  is  possible/ 

"'She  had  no  right  to  dispose  of  those  diamonds- ' 

"  'Precisely/ 

'"Very  well,  sir?' 

"  'Very  well,  sir.  I  knew  your  wife,  and  she  is  in  her 
husband's  power;  I  am  quite  willing,  she  is  in  the  power  of  a 
good  many  people ;  but — I — do — not — know — your  diamonds. 
If  Mme.  la  Comtesse  can  put  her  name  to  a  bill,  she  can  go 
into  business,  of  course,  and  buy  and  sell  diamonds  on  her 
own  account.  The  thing  is  plain  on  the  face  of  it !' 

"  'Good-day,  sir !'  cried  the  Count,  now  white  with  rage. 
'There  are  courts  of  justice/ 

"'Quite  so/ 

"  'This  gentleman  here/  he  added,  indicating  me,  Vas  a 
witness  of  the  sale/ 

"  'That  is  possible/ 

"The  Count  turned  to  go.  Feeling  the  gravity  of  the  af- 
fair, I  suddenly  put  in  between  the  two  belligerents. 

"  'M.  le  Comte,'  said  I,  'you  are  right,  and  M.  Gobseck 
is  by  no  means  in  the  wrong.  You  could  not  prosecute  the 
purchaser  without  bringing  your  wife  into  court,  and  the 
whole  of  the  odium  would  not  fall  on  her.  I  am  an  attorney, 
and  I  owe  it  to  myself,  and  still  more  to  my  professional 
position,  to  declare  that  the  diamonds  of  which  you  speak 
were  purchased  b}r  M.  Gobseck  in  my  presence;  but,  in  my 
opinion,  it  would  be  unwise  to  dispute  the  legality  of  the 
sale,  especially  as  the  goods  are  not  readily  recognizable.  In 
equity  your  contention  would  lie,  in  law  it  would  collapse. 
M.  Gobseck  is  too  honest  a  man  to  deny  that  the  sale  was 
a  profitable  transaction,  more  especially  as  my  conscience, 
no  less  than  my  duty,  compels  me  to  make  the  admission. 
But  once  bring  the  case  into  a  court  of  law,  M.  le  Comte,  the 


GOBSECK  325 

issue  would  be  doubtful.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  come  to 
terms  with  M.  Gobseck,  who  can  plead  that  he  bought  the  dia- 
monds in  all  good  faith;  you  would  be  bound  in  any  case  to 
return  the  purchase-money.  Consent  to  an  arrangement, 
with  power  to  redeem  at  the  end  of  seven  or  eight  months, 
or  a  year  even,  or  any  convenient  lapse  of  time,  for  the  re- 
payment of  the  sum  borrowed  by  Mme.  la  Comtesse,  unless 
you  would  prefer  to  repurchase  them  outright  and  give  se- 
curity for  repayment.' 

"Gobseck  dipped  his  bread  into  the  bowl  of  coffee,  and  ate 
with  perfect  indifference;  but  at  the  words  'come  to  terms,' 
he  looked  at  me  as  who  should  say,  'A  fine  fellow  that!  he 
has  learned  something  from  my  lessons !'  And  I,  for  my 
part,  riposted  with  a  glance,  which  he  understood  uncom- 
monly well.  The  business  was  dubious  and  shady;  there  was 
pressing  need  of  coming  to  terms.  Gobseck  could  not  deny 
all  knowledge  of  it,  for  I  should  appear  as  a  witness.  The 
Count  thanked  me  with  a  smile  of  good-will. 

"In  the  debate  which  followed,  Gobseck  showed  greed 
enough  and  skill  enough  to  baffle  a  whole  congress  of  diplo- 
matists ;  but  in  the  end  I  drew  up  an  instrument,  in  which  the 
Count  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  eighty-five  thousand  francs, 
interest  included,  in  consideration  of  which  Gobseck  undertook 
to  return  the  diamonds  to  the  Count. 

"  'What  waste !'  exclaimed  he  as  he  put  his  signature  to 
the  agreement.  'How  is  it  possible  to  bridge  such  a  gulf?' 

"  'Have  you  many  children,  sir  ?'  Gobseck  asked  gravely. 

"The  Count  winced  at  the  question;  it  was  as  if  the  old 
money-lender,  like  an  experienced  physician,  had  put  his 
finger  at  once  on  the  sore  spot.  The  Comtesse's  husband  did 
not  reply. 

"  'Well,'  said  Gobseck,  taking  the  pained  silence  for  an- 
swer, 'I  know  your  story  by  heart.  The  woman  is  a  fiend, 
but  perhaps  you  love  her  still ;  I  can  well  believe  it ;  she  made 
an  impression  on  me.  Perhaps,  too,  you  would  rather  save 
your  fortune,  and  keep  it  for  one  or  two  of  your  children? 
Well,  fling  yourself  into  the  whirlpool  of  society,  lose  that 


326  GOBSECK 

fortune  at  pla}r,  come  to  Gobseck  pretty  often.  The  world 
will  say  that  I  am  a  Jew,  a  Tartar,  a  usurer,  a  pirate,  will 
say  that  I  have  ruined  you!  I  snap  my  fingers  at  them! 
If  anybody  insults  me,  I  lay  my  man  out ;  nobody  is  a  surer 
shot  nor  handles  a  rapier  better  than  your  servant.  And 
every  one  knows  it.  Then,  have  a  friend — if  you  can  find 
one — and  make  over  your  property  to  him  by  a  fictitious, 
sale.  You  call  that  a  fidei  commissum,  don't  you?'  he 
asked,  turning  to  me. 

"The  Count  seemed  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts. 

"  'You  shall  have  your  money  to-morrow/  he  said,  'have 
the  diamonds  in  readiness,'  and  he  went. 

"  'There  goes  one  who  looks  to  me  to  be  as  stupid  as  an 
honest  man/  Gobseck  said  coolly  when  the  Count  had  gone. 

"  'Say  rather  stupid  as  a  man  of  passionate  nature.' 

"  'The  Count  owes  you  your  fee  for  drawing  up  the 
agreement!'  Gobseck  called  after  me  as  I  took  my  leave. 

"One  morning,  a  few  days  after  the  scene  which  initiated 
me  into  the  terrible  depths  beneath  the  surface  of  the  life 
of  a  woman  of  fashion,  the  Count  came  into  my  private 
office. 

"  'I  have  come  to  consult  you  on  a  matter  of  grave  mo- 
ment/ he  said,  'and  I  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  have  per- 
fect confidence  in  you,  as  I  hope  to  prove  to  you.  Your  be- 
havior to  Mme.  de  Grandlieu  is  above  all  praise/  the  Count 
went  on.  (You  see,  madame,  that  you  have  paid  me  a  thou- 
sand times  over  for  a  very  simple  matter.) 

"I  bowed  respectfully,  and  replied  that  I  had  done  nothing 
but  the  duty  of  an  honest  man. 

"  'Well/  the  Count  went  on,  'I  have  made  a  great  many 
inquiries  about  the  singular  personage  to  whom  you  owe  your 
position.  And  from  all  that  I  can  learn,  Gobseck  is  a  phil- 
osopher of  the  Cynic  school.  What  do  you  think  of  his 
probity  ?" 

"  'M.  le  Comte/  said  I,  'Gobseck  is  my  benefactor — at  fif- 


GOBSECK  327 

teen  per  cent,'  I  added,  laughing.  'But  his  avarice  does 
not  authorize  me  to  paint  him  to  the  life  for  a  stranger's 
benefit.' 

''  'Speak  out,  sir.  Your  frankness  cannot  injure  Gobseck 
or  yourself.  I  do  not  expect  to  find  an  angel  in  a  pawn- 
broker.' 

"  'Daddy  Gobseck,'  I  began,  'is  intimately  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  the  principle  which  he  takes  for  a  rule  of  life. 
In  his  opinion,  money  is  a  commodity  which  you  may  sell 
cheap  or  dear,  according  to  circumstances,  with  a  clear  con- 
science. A  capitalist,  by  charging  a  high  rate  of  interest, 
becomes  in  his  eyes  a  secured  partner  by  anticipation  in  the 
profits  of  a  paying  concern  or  speculation.  Apart  from 
the  peculiar  philosophical  views  of  human  nature  and 
financial  principles,  which  enable  him  to  behave  like  a  usurer, 
1  am  fully  persuaded  that,  out  of  his  business,  he  is  the  most 
loyal  and  upright  soul  in  Paris.  There  are  two  men  in  him ; 
he  is  petty  and  great — a  miser  and  a  philosopher.  If  I  were 
to  die  and  leave  a  family  behind  me,  he  would  be  the 
guardian  whom  I  should  appoint.  This  was  how  I  came 
to  see  Gobseck  in  this  light,  monsieur.  I  know  nothing  of 
his  past  life.  He  may  have  been  a  pirate,  may,  for  anything 
I  know,  have  been  all  over  the  world,  trafficking  in  dia- 
monds, or  men,  or  women,  or  State  secrets;  but  this  I  affirm 
of  him — never  has  human  soul  been  more  thoroughly  tem- 
pered and  tried.  When  I  paid  off  my  loan,  I  asked  him,  with 
a  little  circumlocution  of  course,  how  it  was  that  he  had 
made  me  pay  such  an  exorbitant  rate  of  interest;  and  why, 
seeing  that  I  was  a  friend,  and  he  meant  to  do  me  a  kindness, 
he  should  not  have  yielded  to  the  wish  and  made  it  complete. — 
"My  son,"  he  said,  "I  released  you  from  all  need  to  feel  anv 
gratitude  by  giving  you  ground  for  the  belief  that  you  owed 
me  nothing." — So  we  are  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  That 
answer,  monsieur,  gives  you  the  man  better  than  any  amount 
of  description.' 

"  'I  have  made  up  my  mind  once  and  for  all,'  said  the 
Count.  'Draw  up  the  necessary  papers;  I  am  going  to  trans- 


328  GOBSECK 

fer  my  property  to  Gobseck.  I  have  no  one  but  you  to  trust 
to  in  the  draft  of  the  counter-deed,  which  will  declare  that 
this  transfer  is  a  simulated  sale,  and  that  Gobseck  as  trustee 
will  administer  my  estate  (as  he  knows  how  to  administer), 
and  undertakes  to  make  over  my  fortune  to  my  eldest  son 
when  he  comes  of  age.  Now,  sir,  this  I  must  tell  you:  I 
should  be  afraid  to  have  that  precious  document  in  my  own 
keeping.  My  boy  is  so  fond  of  his  mother,  that  I  cannot 
trust  him  with  it.  So  dare  I  beg  of  you  to  keep  it  for  me? 
In  case  of  death,  Gobseck  would  make  you  legatee  of  my 
property.  Every  contingency  is  provided  for/ 

"The  Count  paused  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  greatly  agi- 
tated. 

"  'A  thousand  pardons,'  he  said  at  length ;  'I  am  in  great 
pain,  and  have  very  grave  misgivings  as  to  my  health.  Re- 
cent troubles  have  disturbed  me  very  painfully,  and  forced 
me  to  take  this  great  step.' 

"  'Allow  me  first  to  thank  you,  monsieur,'  said  I,  'for  the 
trust  you  place  me  in.  But  I  am  bound  to  deserve  it  by 
pointing  out  to  you  that  you  are  disinheriting  your — other 
children.  They  bear  your  name.  Merely  as  the  children 
of  a  once-loved  wife,  now  fallen  from  her  position,  they  have 
a  claim  to  an  assured  existence.  I  tell  you  plainly  that  I 
cannot  accept  the  trust  with  which  you  propose  to  honor 
me  unless  their  future  is  secured.' 

"The  Count  trembled  violently  at  the  words,  and  tears 
came  into  his  eyes  as  he  grasped  my  hand,  saying,  'I  did 
not  know  my  man  thoroughly.  You  have  made  me  both  glad 
and  sorry.  We  will  make  provision  for  the  children  in  the 
counter-deed.' 

"I  went  with  him  to  the  door;  it  seemed  to  me  that  there 
was  a  glow  of  satisfaction  in  his  face  at  the  thought  of  this 
act  of  justice. 

"Now,  Camille,  this  is  how  a  young  wife  takes  the  first 
step  to  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  A  quadrille,  a  ballad,  a 
picnic  party  is  sometimes  cause  sufficient  of  frightful  evils. 
You  are  hurried  on  by  the  presumptuous  voice  of  vanity  and 


GOBSECK  329 

pride,  on  the  faith  of  a  smile,  or  through  giddiness  and  folly ! 
Shame  and  misery  and  remorse  are  three  Furies  awaiting 
every  woman  the  moment  she  oversteps  the  limits "" 

"Poor  Camille  can  hardly  keep  awake,"  the  Vicomtesse 
hastily  broke  in. — "Go  to  bed,  child;  you  have  no  need  of 
appalling  pictures  to  keep  you  pure  in  heart  and  conduct.'* 

Camille  de  Grandlieu  took  the  hint  and  went. 

"You  were  going  rather  too  far,  dear  M.  Derville,"  said 
the  Vicomtesse,  "an  attorney  is  not  a  mother  of  daughters 
nor  yet  a  preacher." 

"But  any  newspaper  is  a  thousand  times " 

"Poor  Derville!"  exclaimed  the  Vicomtesse,  "what  has 
come  over  you  ?  Do  you  really  imagine  that  I  allow  a  daugh- 
ter of  mine  to  read  the  newspapers? — Go  on,"  she  added 
after  a  pause. 

"Three  months  after  everything  was  signed  and  sealed  be- 
tween the  Count  and  Gobseck " 

"You  can  call  him  the  Comte  de  Restaud,  now  that  Camille 
is  not  here,"  said  the  Vicomtesse. 

"So  be  it !  Well,  time  went  by,  and  I  saw  nothing  of  the 
counter-deed,  which  by  rights  should  have  been  in  my  hands. 
An  attorney  in  Paris  lives  in  such  a  whirl  of  business  that 
with  certain  exceptions  which  we  make  for  ourselves,  we  have 
not  the  time  to  give  each  individual  client  the  amount  of 
interest  which  he  himself  takes  in  his  affairs.  Still,  one  day 
when  Gobseck  came  to  dine  with  me,  I  asked  him  as  we  left 
the  table  if  he  knew  how  it  was  that  I  had  heard  no  more  of 
M.  de  Restaud. 

"  'There  are  excellent  reasons  for  that,'  he  said ;  'the  noble 
Count  is  at  death's  door.  He  is  one  of  the  soft  stamp  that 
cannot  learn  how  to  put  an  end  to  chagrin,  and  allow  it  to 
wear  them  out  instead.  Life  is  a  craft,  a  profession;  every 
man  must  take  the  trouble  to  learn  that  business.  When  he 
has  learned  what  life  is  by  dint  of  painful  experiences,  the 
fibre  of  him  is  toughened,  and  acquires  a  certain  elasticity,  so 
that  he  has  his  sensibilities  under  his  own  control;  he  disci- 
plines himself  till  his  nerves  are  like  steel  springs,  which 


330  GOBSECK 

always  bend,  but  never  break ;  given  a  sound  digestion,  and  a 
man  in  such  training  ought  to  live  as  long  as  the  cedars  of 
Lebanon,  and  famous  trees  they  are/ 

"'Then  is  the  Count  actually  dying?'  I  asked. 

"  'That  is  possible/  said  Gobseck ;  'the  winding  up  of  his 
estate  will  be  a  juicy  bit  of  business  for  you.' 

"I  looked  at  my  man,  and  said,  by  way  of  sounding  him: 

"  'Just  explain  to  me  how  it  is  that  we,  the  Count  and  I, 
are  the  only  men  in  whom  you  take  an  interest?' 

"  'Because  you  are  the  only  two  who  have  trusted  me  with- 
out finessing/  he  said. 

"Although  this  answer  warranted  my  belief  that  Gobseck 
would  act  fairly  even  if  the  counter-deed  were  lost,  I  resolved 
to  go  to  see  the  Count.  I  pleaded  a  business  engagement,  and 
we  separated. 

"I  went  straight  to  the  Eue  du  Helder,  and  was  shown  into 
a  room  where  the  Countess  sat  playing  with  her  children. 
When  she  heard  my  name,  she  sprang  up  and  came  to  meet 
me,  then  she  sat  down  and  pointed  without  a  word  to  a  chair 
by  the  fire.  Her  face  wore  the  inscrutable  mask  beneath  which 
women  of  the  world  conceal  their  most  vehement  emotions. 
Trouble  had  withered  that  face  already.  Nothing  of  its 
beauty  now  remained,  save  the  marvelous  outlines  in  which 
its  principal  charm  had  lain. 

"  'It  is  essential,  madame,  that  I  should  speak  to  M.  le 
Comte " 

"'If  so,  you  would  be  more  favored  than  I  am/  she  said, 
interrupting  me.  'M.  de  Eestaud  will  see  no  one.  He  will 
hardly  allow  his  doctor  to  come,  and  will  not  be  nursed  even 
by  me.  When  people  are  ill,  they  have  such  strange  fancies ! 
They  are  like  children,  they  do  not  know  what  they  want.' 

"  'Perhaps,  like  children,  they  know  very  well  what  they 
want.' 

"The  Countess  reddened.  I  almost  repented  a  thrust 
worthy  of  Gobseck.  So,  by  way  of  changing  the  conversa- 
tion, I  added,  'But  M.  de  Restaud  cannot  possibly  lie  there 
alone  all  day,  madame.' 


GOBSECK  331 

"  'His  oldest  boy  is  with  him,'  she  said. 

"It  was  useless  to  gaze  at  the  Countess;  she  did  not  blush 
this  time,  and  it  looked  to  me  as  if  she  were  resolved  more 
firmly  than  ever  that  I  should  not  penetrate  into  her  secrets. 

"  'You  must  understand,  madame,  that  my  proceeding  is 
no  way  indiscreet.  It  is  strongly  to  his  interest —  I  bit  my 
lips,  feeling  that  I  had  gone  the  wrong  way  to  work.  The 
Countess  immediately  took  advantage  of  my  slip. 

"  'My  interests  are  in  no  way  separate  from  my  husband's, 
sir,'  said  she.  'There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  addressing 
yourself  to  me ' 

"  'The  business  which  brings  me  here  concerns  no  one  but 
M.  le  Comte,'  I  said  firmly. 

"  'I  will  let  him  know  of  your  wish  to  see  him/ 

"The  civil  tone  and  expression  assumed  for  the  occasion 
did  not  impose  upon  me;  I  divined  that  she  would  never 
allow  me  to  see  her  husband.  I  chatted  on  about  indifferent 
matters  for  a  little  while,  so  as  to  study  her ;  but,  like  all 
women  who  have  once  begun  to  plot  for  themselves,  she 
could  dissimulate  with  the  rare  perfection  which,  in  your 
sex,  means  the  last  degree  of  perfidy.  If  I  may  dare  to  say 
it,  I  looked  for  anything  from  her,  even  a  crime.  She  pro- 
duced this  feeling  in  me,  because  it  was  so  evident  from  her 
manner  and  in  all  that  she  did  or  said,  down  to  the  very  in- 
flections of  her  voice,  that  she  had  an  eye  to  the  future.  I 
went. 

"Now,  I  will  pass  on  to  the  final  scenes  of  this  adventure, 
throwing  in  a  few  circumstances  brought  to  light  by  time, 
and  some  details  guessed  by  Gobseck's  perspicacity  or  by  my 
own. 

"When  the  Comte  de  Kestaud  apparently  plunged  into  the 
vortex  of  dissipation,  something  passed  between  the  husband 
and  wife,  something  which  remains  an  impenetrable  secret, 
but  the  wife  sank  even  lower  in  the  husband's  eyes.  As  soon 
as  he  became  so  ill  that  he  was  obliged  to  take  to  his  bed,  he 
manifested  his  aversion  for  the  Countess  and  the  two  young- 
est children.  He  forbade  them  to  enter  his  room,  and  any 


332  GOBSEGK 

attempt  to  disobey  his  wishes  brought  on  such  dangerous  at- 
tacks that  the  doctor  implored  the  Countess  to  submit  to  her 
husband's  wish. 

"Mme.  de  Eestaud  had  seen  the  family  estates  and  property, 
nay,  the  very  mansion  in  which  she  lived,  pass  into  the  hands 
of  Gobseck,  who  appeared  to  play  the  fantastic  ogre  so  far 
as  their  wealth  was  concerned.  She  partially  understood 
what  her  husband  was  doing,  no  doubt.  M.  de  Trailles  was 
traveling  in  England  (his  creditors  had  been  a  little  too 
pressing  of  late),  and  no  one  else  was  in  a  position  to  en- 
lighten the  lady,  and  explain  that  her  husband  was  taking 
precautions  against  her  at  Gobseck's  suggestion.  It  is  said 
that  she  held  out  for  a  long  while  before  she  gave  the  signa- 
ture required  by  French  law  for  the  sale  of  the  property; 
nevertheless  the  Count  gained  his  point.  The  Countess  was 
convinced  that  her  husband  was  realizing  his  fortune,  and 
that  somewhere  or  other  there  would  be  a  little  bunch  of 
notes  representing  the  amount ;  they  had  been  deposited  with 
a  notary,  or  perhaps  at  the  Bank,  or  in  some  safe  hiding- 
place.  Following  out  her  train  of  thought,  it  was  evident 
that  M.  de  Restaud  must  of  necessity  have  some  kind  of  docu- 
ment in  his  possession  by  which  any  remaining  property 
could  be  recovered  and  handed  over  to  his  son. 

"So  she  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  the  strictest  possible 
watch  over  the  sick-room.  She  ruled  despotically  in  the 
house,  and  everything  in  it  was  submitted  to  this  feminine 
espionage.  All  day  she  sat  in  the  salon  adjoining  her  hus- 
band's room,  so  that  she  could  hear  every  syllable  that  he 
uttered,  every  least  movement  that  he  made.  She  had  a  bed 
put  there  for  her  of  a  night,  but  she  did  not  sleep  very  much. 
The  doctor  was  entirely  in  her  interests.  Such  wifely  devo- 
tion seemed  praiseworthy  enough.  With  the  natural  subtlety 
of  perfidy,  she  took  care  to  disguise  M.  de  Restaud's  repug- 
nance for  her,  and  feigned  distress  so  perfectly  that  she 
gained  a  sort  of  celebrity.  Strait-laced  women  were  even 
found  to  say  that  she  had  expiated  her  sins.  Always  before 
her  eyes  she  beheld  a  vision  of  the  destitution  to  follow  on 


GOBSBCK  333 

the  Count's  death  if  her  presence  of  mind  should  fail  her; 
and  in  these  ways  the  wife,  repulsed  from  the  bed  of  pain  on 
which  her  husband  lay  and  groaned,  had  drawn  a  charmed 
circle  round  about  it.  So  near,  yet  kept  at  a  distance;  all- 
powerful,  but  in  disgrace,  the  apparentty  devoted  wife  was 
lying  in  wait  for  death  and  opportunity;  crouching  like  the 
ant-lion  at  the  bottom  of  his  spiral  pit,  ever  on  the  watch  for 
the  prey  that  cannot  escape,  listening  to  the  fall  of  every  grain 
of  sand. 

"The  strictest  censor  could  not  but  recognize  that  the 
Countess  pushed  maternal  sentiment  to  the  last  degree.  Her 
father's  death  had  been  a  lesson  to  her,  people  said.  She 
worshiped  her  children.  They  were  so  young  that  she  could 
hide  the  disorders  of  her  life  from  their  eyes,  and  could  win 
their  love;  she  had  given  them  the  best  and  most  brilliant 
education.  I  confess  that  I  cannot  help  admiring  her  and 
feeling  sorry  for  her.  Gobseck  used  to  joke  me  about  it. 
Just  about  that  time  she  had  discovered  Maxime's  baseness, 
and  was  expiating  the  sins  of  the  past  in  tears  of  blood.  I 
am  sure  of  it.  Hateful  as  were  the  measures  which  she  took 
for  regaining  control  of  her  husband's  money,  were  they  not 
the  result  of  a  mother's  love,  and  a  desire  to  repair  the  wrongs 
she  had  done  her  children  ?  And  again,  it  may  be,  like  many 
a  woman  who  has  experienced  the  storms  of  lawless  love,  she 
felt  a  longing  to  lead  a  virtuous  life  again.  Perhaps  she 
only  learned  the  worth  of  that  life  when  she  came  to  reap 
the  woeful  harvest  sown  by  her  errors. 

"Every  time  that  little  Ernest  came  out  of  his  father's 
room,  she  put  him  through  a  searching  examination  as  to  all 
that  his  father  had  done  or  said.  The  boy  willingly  complied 
with  his  mother's  wishes,  and  told  her  even  more  than  she 
asked  in  her  anxious  affection,  as  he  thought. 

"My  visit  was  a  ray  of  light  for  the  Countess.  She  was 
determined  to  see  in  me  the  instrument  of  the  Count's  venge- 
ance, and  resolved  that  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  go  near 
the  dying  man.  I  augured  ill  of  all  this,  and  earnestly  wished 
for  an  interview,  for  I  was  not  easy  in  my  mind  about  the 


334  GOBSECK 

fate  of  the  counter-deed.  If  it  should  fall  into  the  Countess' 
hands,  she  might  turn  it  to  her  own  account,  and  that  would 
be  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  interminable  lawsuits  between 
her  and  Gobseck.  I  knew  the  usurer  well  enough  to  feel  con- 
vinced that  he  would  never  give  up  the  property  to  her ;  there 
was  room  for  plenty  of  legal  quibbling  over  a  series  of  trans- 
fers, and  I  alone  knew  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  matter.  I 
was  minded  to  prevent  such  a  tissue  of  misfortune,  so  I  went 
to  the  Countess  a  second  time. 

"I  have  noticed,  madame,"  said  Perville,  turning  to  the 
Vicomtesse,  and  speaking  in  a  confidential  tone,  "certain 
moral  phenomena  to  which  we  do  not  pay  enough  attention.  I 
am  naturally  an  observer  of  human  nature,  and  instinctively 
I  bring  a  spirit  of  analysis  to  the  business  that  I  transact  in 
the  interest  of  others,  when  human  passions  are  called  into 
lively  play.  Now,  I  have  often  noticed,  and  always  with  new 
wonder,  that  two  antagonists  almost  always-  divine  each 
other's  inmost  thoughts  and  ideas.  Two  enemies  sometimes 
possess  a  power  of  clear  insight  into  mental  processes,  and 
read  each  other's  minds  as  two  lovers  read  in  either  soul.  So 
when  we  came  together,  the  Countess  and  I,  I  understood  at 
once  the  reason  of  her  antipathy  for  me,  disguised  though 
it  was  by  the  most  gracious  forms  of  politeness  and  civility. 
I  had  been  forced  to  be  her  confidant,  and  a  woman  cannot 
but  hate  the  man  before  whom  she  is  compelled  to  blush. 
And  she  on  her  side  knew  that  if  I  was  the  man  in  whom 
her  husband  placed  confidence,  that  husband  had  not  as  yet 
given  up  his  fortune. 

"1  will  spare  you  the  conversation,  but  it  abides  in  my 
memory  as  one  of  the  most  dangerous  encounters  in  my 
career.  Nature  had  bestowed  on  her  all  the  qualities  which, 
combined,  are  irresistibly  fascinating;  she  could  be  pliant 
and  proud  by  turns,  and  confiding  and  coaxing  in  her  man- 
ner; she  even  went  so  far  as  to  try  to  arouse  curiosity  and 
kindle  love  in  her  effort  to  subjugate  me.  It  was  a  failure. 
As  I  took  my  leave  of  her,  I  caught  a  gleam  of  hate  and  rage 
in  her  eyes  that  made  me  shudder.  We  parted  enemies.  She 


GOBSBCK  335 

would  fain  have  crushed  me  out  of  existence;  and  for  my 
own  part,  I  felt  pity  for  her,  and  for  some  natures  pity  is  the 
deadliest  of  insults.  This  feeling  pervaded  the  last  repre- 
sentations I  put  before  her;  and  when  I  left  her,  I  left,  I 
think,  dread  in  the  depths  of  her  soul,  by  declaring  that,  turn 
which  way  she  would,  ruin  lay  inevitably  before  her. 

"  'If  I  were  to  see  M.  le  Comte,  your  children's  property 
at  any  rate  would 

"  'I  should  be  at  your  mercy,'  she  said,  breaking  in  upon 
me,  disgust  in  her  gesture. 

"Now  that  we  had  spoken  frankly,  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  save  the  family  from  impending  destitution.  I  resolved 
to  strain  the  law  at  need  to  gain  my  ends,  and  this  was  what 
I  did.  I  sued  the  Comte  de  Restaud  for  a  sum  of  money, 
ostensibly  due  to  Gobseck,  and  gained  judgment.  The 
Countess,  of  course,  did  not  allow  him  to  know  of  this,  but  I 
had  gained  my  point,  I  had  a  right  to  affix  seals  to  every- 
thing on  the  death  of  the  Count.  I  bribed  one  of  the  servants 
in  the  house — the  man  undertook  to  let  me  know  at  any  hour 
of  the  day  or  night  if  his  master  should  be  at  the  point  of 
death,  so  that  I  could  intervene  at  once,  scare  the  Countess 
with  a  threat  of  affixing  seals,  and  so  secure  the  counter- 
deed. 

"I  learned  later  on  that  the  woman  was  studying  the  Code, 
with  her  husband's  dying  moans  in  her  ears.  If  we  could 
picture  the  thoughts  of  those  who  stand  about  a  deathbed, 
whfct  fearful  sights  should  we  not  see?  Money  is  always  the 
mot  ve- spring  of  the  schemes  elaborated,  of  all  the 
plan?  that  are  made  and  the  plots  that  are  woven 
abou~.  it !  Let  us  leave  these  details,  nauseating  in 
the  nature  of  them;  but  perhaps  they  may  have  given  you 
some  nsight  into  all  that  this  husband  and  wife  endured ;  per- 
haps 100  they  may  unveil  much  that  is  passing  in  secret  in 
other  aouses. 

"Fo'  two  months  the  Comte  de  Restaud  lay  on  his  bed, 
alone,  ind  resigned  to  his  fate.  Mortal  disease  was  slowly 


836  GOBSECK 

sapping  the  strength  ot  mind  and  body.  Unaccountable  and 
grotesque  sick  fancies  preyed  upon  him;  he  would  not  suffer 
them  to  set  his  room  in  order,  no  one  should  nurse  him,  he 
would  not  even  allow  them  to  make  his  bed.  All  his  sur- 
roundings bore  the  marks  of  this  last  degree  of  apathy,  the 
furniture  was  out  of  place,  the  daintiest  trifles  were  covered 
with  dust  and  cobwebs.  In  health  he  had  been  a  man  of 
refined  and  expensive  tastes,  now  he  positively  delighted  in 
the  comfortless  look  of  the  room.  A  host  of  objects  required 
in  illness — rows  of  medicine  bottles,  empty  and  full,  most  of 
them  dirty,  crumpled  linen  and  broken  plates,  littered  the 
writing-table,  chairs,  and  chimney-piece.  An  open  warming- 
pan  lay  on  the  floor  before  the  grate ;  a  bath,  still  full  of  min- 
eral water,  had  not  been  taken  away.  The  sense  of  coming 
dissolution  pervaded  all  the  details  of  an  unsightly  chaos. 
Signs  of  death  appeared  in  things  inanimate  before  the 
Destroyer  came  to  the  body,  on  the  bed.  The  Comte  de 
Restaud  could  not  bear  the  daylight,  the  Venetian  shutters 
were  closed,  darkness  deepened  the  gloom  in  the  dismal 
chamber.  The  sick  man  himself  had  wasted  greatly.  All 
the  life  in  him  seemed  to  have  taken  refuge  in  the  still  brill- 
iant eyes.  The  livid  whiteness  of  his  face  was  something 
horrible  to  see,  enhanced  as  it  was  by  the  long  dank  locks  of 
hair  that  straggled  along  his  cheeks,  for  he  would  never 
suffer  them  to  cut  it.  He  looked  like  some  religious  fanatfc 
in  the  desert.  Mental  suffering  was  extinguishing  all  humin 
instincts  in  this  man  of  scarce  fifty  years  of  age,  whom  all 
Paris  had  known  as  so  brilliant  and  so  successful. 

"One  morning  at  the  beginning  of  December  1824,  he 
looked  up  at  Ernest,  who  sat  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  gazing  at 
his  father  with  wistful  eyes. 

"  'Are  you  in  pain  ?'  the  little  Vicomte  asked. 

"'No/  said  the  Count,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  'it  al  lies 
here  and  about  my  heart!' 

"He  pointed  to  his  forehead,  and  then  laid  his  \fasted 
fingers  on  his  hollow  chest.  Ernest  began  to  cry  at  the  sight. 

"  'How  is  it  that  M.  Derville  does  not  come  to  me?'  the 


GOBSECK  337 

Count  asked  his  servant  (he  thought  that  Maurice  was  really 
attached  to  him,  but  the  man  was  entirely  in  the  Countess' 
interest) — 'What!  Maurice!'  and  the  dying  man  suddenly 
sat  upright  in  his  bed,  and  seemed  to  recover  all  his  presence 
of  mind,  'I  have  sent  for  my  attorney  seven  or  eight  times 
during  the  last  fortnight,  and  he  does  not  come !'  he  cried. 
'Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  to  be  trifled  with?  Go  for  him, 
at  once,  this  very  instant,  and  bring  him  back  with  you.  If 
you  do  not  carry  out  m}^  orders,  I  shall  get  up  and  go  myself." 

"  'Madame,'  said  the  man  as  he  came  into  the  salon,  'you 
heard  M.  le  Comte;  what  ought  I  to  do?' 

"  'Pretend  to  go  to  the  attorney,  and  when  you  come  back, 
tell  your  master  that  his  man  of  business  is  forty  leagues 
away  from  Paris  on  an  important  lawsuit.  Say  that  he  is 
expected  back  at  the  end  of  the  week. — Sick  people  Clever 
know  how  ill  they  are,'  thought  the  Countess ;  'he  will  wait  till 
the  man  comes  home.' 

"The  doctor  had  said  on  the  previous  evening  that  the 
Count  could  scarcely  live  through  the  day.  When  the  servant 
came  back  two  hours  later  to  give  that  hopeless  answer,  the 
dying  man  seemed  to  be  greatly  agitated. 

"  '0  God !'  he  cried  again  and  again,  'I  put  my  trust  in 
none  but  Thee.' 

"For  a  long  while  he  lay  and  gazed  at  his  son,  and  spoke 
in  a  feeble  voice  at  last. 

"  'Ernest,  my  boy,  you  are  very  young ;  but  you  have  a 
good  heart;  you  can  understand,  no  doubt,  that  a  promise 
given  to  a  dying  man  is  sacred ;  a  promise  to  a  father  .  .  . 
Do  you  feel  that  you  can  be  trusted  with  a  secret,  and  keep  it 
so  well  and  closely  that  even  your  mother  herself  shall  not 
know  that  you  have  a  secret  to  keep?  There  is  no  one  else 
in  this  house  whom  I  can  trust  to-day.  You  will  not  betray 
my  trust,  will  you?' 

"  'No,  father.' 

"  'Very  well,  then,  Ernest,  in  a  minute  or  two  I  will  give 
you  a  sealed  packet  that  belongs  to  M.  Derville;  you  must 
take  such  care  of  it  that  no  one  can  know  that  you  have  it; 
vol..  5 — 46 


338  GOBSECK 

then  you  must  slip  out  of  the  house  and  put  the  letter  into 
the  post-box  at  the  corner/ 

"  'Yes,  father/ 

"  'Can  I  depend  upon  you  ?' 

'"Yes,  father/ 

"  'Come  and  kiss  me.  You  have  made  death  less  bitter  to 
me,  dear  boy.  In  six  or  seven  years'  time  you  will  understand 
the  importance  of  this  secret,  and  you  will  be  well  rewarded 
then  for  your  quickness  and  obedience,  you  will  know  then 
how  much  I  love  you.  Leave  me  alone  for  a  minute,  and 
let  no  one — no  matter  whom — come  in  meanwhile/ 

"Ernest  went  out  and  saw  his  mother  standing  in  the  next 
room. 

"  'Ernest/  said  she,  'come  here/ 

"She  sat  down,  drew  her  son  to  her  knees,  and  clasped  him 
in  her  arms,  and  held  him  tightly  to  her  heart. 

"  'Ernest,  your  father  said  something  to  you  just  now/ 

"  'Yes,  mamma/ 

'"What  did  he  say?' 

"  'I  cannot  repeat  it,  mamma/ 

"  'Oh,  my  dear  child !'  cried  the  Countess,  kissing  him  in 
rapture.  'You  have  kept  your  secret;  how  glad  that  makes 
me !  Never  tell  a  lie ;  never  fail  to  keep  your  word — those 
are  two  principles  which  should  never  be  forgotten/ 

"  'Oh !  mamma,  how  beautiful  you  are !  You  have  never 
told  a  lie,  I  am  quite  sure/ 

"  'Once  or  twice,  Ernest  dear,  I  have  lied.  Yes,  and  I 
have  not  kept  my  word  under  circumstances  which  speak 
louder  than  all  precepts.  Listen,  my  Ernest,  you  are  big 
enough  and  intelligent  enough  to  see  that  your  father  drives 
me  away,  and  will  not  allow  me  to  nurse  him,  and  this  is  not 
natural,  for  you  know  how  much  I  love  him/ 

'"Yes,  mamma/ 

"The  Countess  began  to  cry.  'Poor  child!'  she  said,  'this 
misfortune  is  the  result  of  treacherous  insinuations.  Wicked 
people  have  tried  to  separate  me  from  your  father  to  satisfy 
their  greed.  They  mean  to  take  all  our  money  from  us  and  to 


GOBSECK  339 

keep  it  for  themselves.  If  your  father  were  well,  the  division 
between  us  would  soon  be  over;  he  would  listen  to  me;  he  is 
loving  and  kind;  he  would  see  his  mistake.  But  now  his 
mind  is  affected,  and  his  prejudices  against  me  have  become 
a  fixed  idea,  a  sort  of  mania  with  him.  It  is  one  result  of  his 
illness.  Your  father's  fondness  for  you  is  another  proof  that 
his  mind  is  deranged.  Until  he  fell  ill  you  never  noticed  that 
he  loved  you  more  than  Pauline  and  Georges.  It  is  all  caprice 
with  him  now.  In  his  affection  for  you  he  might  take  it  into 
his  head  to  tell  you  to  do  things  for  him.  If  you  do  not  want 
to  ruin  us  all,  my  darling,  and  to  see  your  mother  begging 
her  bread  like  a  pauper  woman,  you  must  tell  her  every- 
thing  ' 

"  'Ah !'  cried  the  Count.  He  had  opened  the  door  and 
stood  there,  a  sudden,  half-naked  apparition,  almost  as  thin 
and  fleshless  as  a  skeleton. 

"His  smothered  cry  produced  a  terrible  effect  upon  the 
Countess;  she  sat  motionless,  as  if  a  sudden  stupor  had  seized 
her.  Her  husband  was  as  white  and  wasted  as  if  he  had  risen 
out  of  his  grave. 

"  'You  have  filled  my  life  to  the  full  with  trouble,  and  now 
you  are  trying  to  vex  my  deathbed,  to  warp  my  boy's  mind, 
and  make  a  depraved  man  of  him !'  he  cried,  hoarsely. 

"The  Countess  flung  herself  at  his  feet.  His  face,  working 
with  the  last  emotions  of  life,  was  almost  hideous  to  see. 

"  'Mercy !  mercy !'  she  cried  aloud,  shedding  a  torrent  of 
tears. 

"  'Have  you  shown  me  any  pity  ?'  he  asked.  'I  allowed  you 
to  squander  your  own  money,  and  now  do  you  mean  to 
squander  my  fortune,  too,  and  ruin  my  son?' 

"  'Ah !  well,  yes,  have  no  pity  for  me,  be  merciless  to  me !' 
she  cried.  'But  the  children?  Condemn  your  widow  to  live 
in  a  convent;  I  will  obey  you;  I  will  do  anything,  anything 
that  you  bid  me,  to  expiate -the  wrong  I  have  done  you,  if  that 
so  the  children  may  be  happy!  The  children!  Oh,  the 
children !' 

"  'I  have  only  one  child/  said  the  Count,  stretching  out  a 
wasted  arm,  in  his  despair,  towards  his  son. 


340  GOBSECK 

"  'Pardon  a  penitent  woman,  a  penitent  woman !  .  .  .' 
wailed  the  Countess,  her  arms  about  her  husband's  damp  feet. 
She  could  not  speak  for  sobbing;  vague,  incoherent  sounds 
broke  from  her  parched  throat. 

"  'You  dare  to  talk  of  penitence  after  all  that  you  said  to 
Ernest !'  exclaimed  the  dying  man,  shaking  off  the  Countess, 
who  lay  groveling  over  his  feet. — 'You  turn  me  to  ice !'  he 
added,  and  there  was  something  appalling  in  the  indifference 
with  which  he  uttered  the  words.  'You  have  been  a  bad 
daughter;  you  have  been  a  bad  wife;  you  will  be  a  bad 
mother/ 

"The  wretched  woman  fainted  away.  The  dying  man 
reached  his  bed  and  lay  down  again,  and  a  few  hours  later 
sank  into  unconsciousness.  The  priests  came  and  adminis- 
tered the  sacraments. 

"At  midnight  he  died;  the  scene  that  morning  had  ex- 
hausted his  remaining  strength,  and  on  the  stroke  of  mid- 
night I  arrived  with  Daddy  Gobseck.  The  house  was  in 
confusion,  and  under  cover  of  it  we  walked  up  into  the  little 
salon  adjoining  the  death-chamber.  The  three  children  were 
there  in  tears,  with  two  priests,  who  had  come  to  watch  with 
the  dead.  Ernest  came  over  to  me,  and  said  that  his  mother 
desired  to  be  alone  in  the  Count's  room. 

"  'Do  not  go  in/  he  said ;  and  I  admired  the  child  for  his 
tone  and  gesture ;  'she  is  praying  there/ 

"Gobseck  began  to  laugh  that  soundless  laugh  of  his,  but 
I  felt  too  much  touched  by  the  feeling  in  Ernest's  little  face 
to  join  in  the  miser's  sardonic  amusement.  When  Ernest 
saw  that  we  moved  towards  the  door,  he  planted  himself  in 
front  of  it,  crying  out,  'Mamma,  here  are  some  gentlemen  in 
black  who  want  to  see  you !' 

"Gobseck  lifted  Ernest  out  of  the  way  as  if  the  child  had 
been  a  feather,  and  opened  the  door. 

"What  a  scene  it  was  that  met  our  eyes !  The  room  was 
in  frightful  disorder;  clothes  and  papers  and  rags  lay  tossed 
about  in  a  confusion  horrible  to  see  in  the  presence  of 
Death ;  and  there,  in  the  midst,  stood  the  Countess  in  dishev- 


GOBSBGK  341 

eled  despair,  unable  to  utter  a  word,  her  eyes  glittering.  The 
Count  had  scarcely  breathed  his  last  before  his  wife  came -in 
and  forced  open  the  drawers  and  the  desk;  the  carpet  was 
strewn  with  litter,  some  of  the  furniture  and  boxes  were 
broken,  the  signs  of  violence  could  be  seen  everywhere.  But 
if  her  search  had  at  first  proved  fruitless,  there  was  that  in 
her  excitement  and  attitude  which  led  me  to  believe  that 
she  had  found  the  mysterious  documents  at  last.  I  glanced 
at  the  bed,  and  professional  instinct  told  me  all  that  had 
happened.  The  mattress  had  been  flung  contemptuously 
down  by  the  bedside,  and  across  it,  face  downwards,  lay  the 
body  of  the  Count,  like  one  of  the  paper  envelopes  that 
strewed  the  carpet — he  too  was  nothing  now  but  an  envelope. 
There  was  something  grotesquely  horrible  in  the  attitude  of 
the  stiffening  rigid  limbs. 

"The  dying  man  must  have  hidden  the  counter-deed  under 
his  pillow  to  keep  it  safe  so  long  as  life  should  last ;  and  his 
wife  must  have  guessed  his  thought;  indeed,  it  might  be 
read  plainly  in  his  last  dying  gesture,  in  the  convulsive 
clutch  of  his  claw-like  hands.  The  pillow  had  been  flung  to 
the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  I  could  see  the  print  of  her 
heel  upon  it.  At  her  feet  lay  a  paper  with  the  Count's  arms 
on  the  seals ;  I  snatched  it  <up,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed 
to  me.  I  looked  steadily  at  the  Countess  with  the  piti- 
less clear-sightedness  of  an  examining  magistrate  confronting 
a  guilty  creature.  The  contents  were  blazing  in  the  grate; 
she  had  flung  them  on  the  fire  at  the  sound  of  our  approach, 
imagining,  from  a  first  hasty  glance  at  the  provisions  which 
I  had  suggested  for  her  children,  that  she  was  destroying  a 
will  which  disinherited  them.  A  tormented  conscience  and 
involuntary  horror  of  the  deed  which  she  had  done  had  taken 
away  all  power  of  reflection.  She  had  been  caught  in  the 
act,  and  possibly  the  scaffold  was  rising  before  her  eyes,  and 
she  already  felt  the  felon's  branding  iron. 

"There  she  stood  gasping  for  breath,  waiting  for  us  to 
<speak,  staring  at  us  with  haggard  eyes. 

"I  went  across  to  the  grate  and  pulled  out  an  unburned 


342  GOBSECK 

fragment.  'Ah,  madame!'  I  exclaimed,  'you  have  ruined 
your  children!  Those  papers  were  their  titles  to  their 
property.' 

"Her  mouth  twitched,  she  looked  as  if  she  were  threatened 
by  a  paralytic  seizure. 

"  'Eh !  eh !'  cried  Gobseck ;  the  harsh,  shrill  tone  grated 
upon  our  ears  like  the  sound  of  a  brass  candlestick  scratching 
a  marble  surface. 

"There  was  a  pause,  then  the  old  man  turned  to  me  and 
said  quietly: 

"  'Do  you  intend  Mme.  la  Comtesse  to  suppose  that  I  am 
not  the  rightful  owner  of  the  property  sold  to  me  by  her  late 
husband?  This  house  belongs  to  me  now/ 

"A  sudden  blow  on  the  head  from  a  bludgeon  would  have 
given  me  less  pain  and  astonishment.  The  Countess  saw 
the  look  of  hesitation  in  my  face. 

"  'Monsieur/  she  cried,  'Monsieur !'  She  could  find  no 
other  words. 

"  'You  are  a  trustee,  are  you  not  ?'  I  asked. 

"'That  is  possible/ 

"  'Then  do  you  mean  to  take  advantage  of  this  crime  of 
hers?' 

"  'Precisely/ 

"I  went  at  that,  leaving  the  Countess  sitting  by  her  hus- 
band's bedside,  shedding  hot  tears.  Gobseck  followed  me. 
Outside  in  the  street  I  separated  from  him.,  but  he  came  after 
me,  flung  me  one  of  those  searching  glances  with  which  he 
probed  men's  minds,  and  said  in  the  husky  flute-tones, 
pitched  in  a  shriller  key: 

"  'Do  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  judge  me  ?' 

"From  that  time  forward  we  saw  little  of  each  other. 
Gobseck  let  the  Count's  mansion  on  lease ;  he  spent  the  sum- 
mers on  the  country  estates.  He  was  a  lord  of  the  manor  in 
earnest,  putting  up  farm  buildings,  repairing  mills  and 
roadways,  and  planting  timber.  I  came  across  him  one  day 
in  a  walk  in  the  Jardin  des  Tuileries. 


GOBSECK  343 

"'The  Countess  is  behaving  like  a  heroine,'  said  I;  'she 
gives  herself  up  entirely  to  the  children's  education;  she  is 
giving  them  a  perfect  bringing  up.  The  oldest  boy  is  a 
charming  young  fellow ' 

"  'That  "is  possible/ 

"  'But  ought  you  not  to  help  Ernest  ?'  I  suggested. 

"  'Help  him !'  cried  Gobseck.  'Not  I.  Adversity  is  the 
greatest  of  all  teachers;  adversity  teaches  us  to  know  the 
value  of  money  and  the  worth  of  men  and  women.  Let  him 
set  sail  on  the  seas  of  Paris ;  when  he  is  a  qualified  pilot,  we 
will  give  him  a  ship  to  steer.' 

"I  left  him  without  seeking  to  explain  the  meaning  of  his 
words. 

"M.  de  Restaud's  mother  has  prejudiced  him  against  me, 
and  he  is  very  far  from  taking  me  as  his  legal  adviser;  still, 
I  went  to  see  Gobseck  last  week  to  tell  him  about  Ernest's 
love  for  Mile.  Camille,  and  pressed  him  to  carry  out  his  con- 
tract, since  that  young  Restaud  is  just  of  age. 

"I  found  that  the  old  bill-discounter  had  been  kept  to  his 
bed  for  a  long  time  by  the  complaint  of  which  he  was  to  die. 
He  put  me  off,  saying  that  he  would  give  the  matter  his  atten- 
tion when  he  could  get  up  again  and  see  after  his  business; 
his  idea  being  no  doubt  that  he  would  not  give  up  any  of  his 
possessions  so  long  as  the  breath  was  in  him ;  no  other  -reason 
could  be  found  for  his  shuffling  answer.  He  seemed  to  me  to 
be  much  worse  than  he  at  all  suspected.  I  stayed  with  him 
long  enough  to  discern  the  progress  of  a  passion  which  age 
had  converted  into  a  sort  of  craze.  He  wanted  to  be  alone 
in  the  house,  and  had  taken  the  rooms  one  by  one  as  they 
fell  vacant.  In  his  own  room  he  had  changed  nothing;  the 
furniture  which  I  knew  so  well  sixteen  years  ago  looked  the 
same  as  ever;  it  might  have  been  kept  under  a  glass  case. 
Gobseck's  faithful  old  portress,  with  her  husband,  a  pen- 
sioner, who  sat  in  the  entry  while  she  was  upstairs,  was  still 
his  housekeeper  and  charwoman,  and  now  in  addition  his 
sick-nurse.  In  spite  of  his  feebleness,  Gobseck  saw  his  clients 
himself  as  heretofore,  and  received  sums  of  money;  his  affairs 


344  GOBSfiCK 

had  been  so  simplified,  that  he  only  needed  to  send  his  pen- 
sioner out  now  and  again  on  an  errand,  and  could  carry  on 
business  in  his  bed. 

"After  the  treaty,  by  which  France  recognized  the  Haytian 
Republic,  Gobseck  was  one  of  the  members  of  the  commission 
appointed  to  liquidate  claims  and  assess  repayments  due  by 
Hayti;  his  special  knowledge  of  old  fortunes  in  San  Do- 
mingo, and  the  planters  and  their  heirs  and  assigns  to  whom 
the  indemnities  were  due,  had  led  to  his  nomination.  Gob- 
seck's  peculiar  genius  had  then  devised  an  agency  for  dis- 
counting the  planters'  claims  on  the  government.  The 
business  was  carried  on  under  the  names  of  Werbrust  and 
Gigonnet,  with  whom  he  shared  the  spoil  without  disburse- 
ments, for  his  knowledge  was  accepted  instead  of  capital. 
The  agency  was  a  sort  of  distillery,  in  which  money  was 
extracted  from  doubtful  claims,  and  the  claims  of  those  who 
knew  no  better,  or  had  no  confidence  in  the  government.  As 
a  liquidator,  Gobseck  could  make  terms  with  the  large  landed 
proprietors;  and  these,  either  to  gain  a  higher  percentage  of 
their  claims,  or  to  ensure  prompt  settlements,  would  send  him 
presents  in  proportion  to  their  means.  In  this  way  presents 
came  to  be  a  kind  of  percentage  upon  sums  too  large  to  pass 
through  his  control,  while  the  agency  bought  up  cheaply  the 
small  and  dubious  claims,  or  the  claims  of  those  persons  who 
preferred  a  little  ready  money  to  a  deferred  and  somewhat 
hazy  repayment  by  the  Republic.  Gobseck  was  the  insatiable 
boa  constrictor  of  the  great  business.  Every  morning  he 
received  his  tribute,  eyeing  it  like  a  Nabob's  prime  minister, 
as  he  considers  whether  he  will  sign  i  pardon.  Gobseck  would 
take  anything,  from  the  present  of  game  sent  him  by  some 
poor  devil  or  the  pound's  weight  of  wax  candles  from  devout 
folk,  to  the  rich  man's  plate  and  tho  speculator's  gold  snuff- 
box. Nobody  knew  what  became  of  th<  presents  sent  to  the 
old  money-lender.  Everything  went  in,  but  nothing  came 
out. 

"  'On  the  word  of  an  honest  woman,'  said  the  portress, 
an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  'I  believe  he  swallows  it  all  and 


GOBSECK  345 

is  none  the  fatter  for  it;  he  is  as  thin  and  dried  up  as  the 
cuckoo  in  the  clock.' 

"At  length,  last  Monday,  Gobseck  sent  his  pensioner  for 
me.  The  man  came  up  to  my  private  office. 

"  'Be  quick  and  come,  M.  Derville,'  said  he,  'the  governor 
is  just  going  to  hand  in  his  checks ;  he  has  grown  as  yellow  as 
a  lemon:  he  is  fidgeting  to  speak  with  you;  death  has  fail- 
hold  of  him ;  the  rattle  is  working  in  his  throat.' 

"When  I  entered  Gobseck's  room,  I  found  the  dying  man 
kneeling  before  the  grate.  If  there  was  no  fire  on  the  hearth, 
there  was  at  any  rate  a  monstrous  heap  of  ashes.  He  had 
dragged  himself  out  of  bed,  but  his  strength  had  failed  him, 
and  he  could  neither  go  back  nor  find  voice  to  complain. 

"  'You  felt  cold,  old  friend,'  I  said,  as  I  helped  him  back 
to  his  bed;  'how  can  you  do  without  a  fire?' 

"  'I  am  not  cold  at  all,'  he  said.  'No  fire  here !  no  fire !  I 
am  going,  I  know  not  where,  lad,'  he  went  on,  glancing  at  me 
with  blank,  lightless  eyes,  'but  I  am  going  away  from  this. — 
I  have  carpology'  said  he  (the  use  of  the  technical  term 
showing  how  clear  and  accurate  his  mental  processes  were 
even  now).  'I  thought  the  room  was  full  of  live  gold,  and  I 
got  up  to  catch  some  of  it. — To  whom  will  all  mine  go,  I 
wonder?  Not  to  the  Crown;  I  have  left  a  will,  look  for  it, 
Grotius.  La  belle  Hollandaise  had  a  daughter;  I  once  saw 
the  girl  somewhere  or  other,  in  the  Rue  Vivienne,  one  even- 
ing. They  call  her  "La  Torpille"  I  believe ;  she  is  as  pretty  as 
pretty  can  be;  look  her  up,  Grotius.  You  are  my  executor; 
take  what  you  like ;  help  yourself.  There  are  Strasburg  pies, 
there,  and  bags  of  coffee,  and  sugar,  and  gold  spoons.  Give 
the  Odiot  service  to  your  wife.  But  who  is  to  have  the  dia- 
monds ?  Are  you  going  to  take  them,  lad  ?  There  is  snuff  too 
— sell  it  at  Hamburg,  tobaccos  are  worth  half  as  much  again 
at  Hamburg.  All  sorts  of  things  I  have  in  fact,  and  now  I 
must  go  and  leave  them  all. — Come,  Papa  Gobseck,  no  weak- 
ness, be  yourself!' 

"He  raised  himself  in  bed,  the  lines  of  his  face  standing 
out  as  sharply  against  the  pillow  as  if  the  profile  had  been 


346  GOBSEOK 

cast  in  bronze;  he  stretched  out  a  lean  arm  and  bony  hand 
along  the  coverlet  and  clutched  it,  as  if  so  he  would  fain  keep 
his  hold  on  life,  then  he  gazed  hard  at  the  grate,  cold  as  his 
own  metallic  eyes,  and  died  in  full  consciousness  of  death. 
To  us — the  portress,  the  old  pensioner,  and  myself — he 
looked  like  one  of  the  old  Romans  standing  behind  the 
Consuls  in  Lethiere's  picture  of  the  Death  of  the  Sons  of 
Brutus. 

"  'He  was  a  good-plucked  one,  the  old  Lascar !'  said  the 
pensioner  in  his  soldierly  fashion. 

"But  as  for  me,  the  dying  man's  fantastical  enumeration 
of  his  riches  was  still  sounding  in  my  ears,  and  my  eyes, 
following  the  direction  of  his,  rested  on  that  heap  of  ashes. 
It  struck  me  that  it  was  very  large.  I  took  the  tongs,  and  as 
soon  a*  I  stirred  the  cinders,  I  felt  the  metal 'underneath,  a 
mass  of  gold  and  silver  coins,  receipts  taken  during  his  ill- 
ness, doubtless,  after  he  grew  too  feeble  to  lock  the  money 
up,  and  could  trust  no  one  to  take  it  to  the  bank  for  him. 

"  'Run  for  the  justice  of  the  peace/  said  I,  turning  to  the 
old  pensioner,  'so  that  everything  can  be  -sealed  here  at  once.' 

"Gobseck's  last  words  and  the  old  portress'  remarks  had 
struck  me.  I  took  the  keys  of  the  rooms  on  the  first  and 
second  floor  to  make  a  visitation.  The  first  door  that  I 
opened  revealed  the  meaning  of  the  phrases  which  I  took  for 
mad  ravings;  and  I  saw  the  length  to  which  covetousness 
goes  when  it  survives  only  as  an  illogical  instinct,  the  last 
stage  of  greed  of  which  you  find  so  many  examples  among 
misers  in  country  towns. 

"In  the  room  next  to  the  one  in  which  Gobseck  had  died,  a 
quantity  of  eatables  of  all  kinds  were  stored — putrid  pies, 
mouldy  fish,  nay,  even  shell-fish,  the  stench  almost  choked 
me.  Maggots  and  insects  swarmed.  These  comparatively 
recent  presents  were  put  down,  pell-mell,  among  chests  of 
tea,  bags  of  coffee,  and  packing-cases  of  every  shape.  A 
silver  soup  tureen  on  the  chimney-piece  was  full  of  advices  of 
the  arrival  of  goods  consigned  to  his  order  at  Havre,  bales 
of  cotton,  hogsheads  of  sugar,  barrels  of  rum,  coffees,  indigo, 


GOBSECK  347 

tobaccos,  a  perfect  bazaar  of  colonial  produce.  The  room 
itself  was  crammed  with  furniture,  and  silver-plate,  and 
lamps,  and  vases,  and  pictures ;  there  were  books,  and  curiosi- 
ties, and  fine  engravings  lying  rolled  up,  unframed.  Perhaps 
these  were  not  all  presents,  and  some  part  of  this  vast  quan- 
tity of  stuff  had  been  deposited  with  him  in  the  shape  of 
pledges,  and  had  been  left  on  his  hands  in  default  of  pay- 
ment. I  noticed  jewel-cases,  with  ciphers  and  armorial- 
bearings  stamped  upon  them,  and  sets  of  fine  table-linen,  and 
weapons  of  price;  but  none  of  the  things  were  docketed.  I 
opened  a  book  which  seemed  to  be  misplaced,  and  found  a 
thousand-franc  note  in  it.  I  promised  myself  that  I  would 
go  through  everything  thoroughly;  I  would  try  the  ceilings, 
and  floors,  and  walls,  and  cornices  to  discover  all  the  gold, 
hoarded  with  such  passionate  greed  by  a  Dutch  miser  worthy 
of  a  Kembrandt's  brush.  In  all  the  course  of  my  professional 
career  I  have  never  seen  such  impressive  signs  of  the  eccen- 
tricity of  avarice. 

"I  went  back  to  his  room,  and  found  an  explanation  of  this 
chaos  and  accumulation  of  riches  in  a  pile  of  letters  lying 
under  the  paper-weights  on  his  desk — Gobseck's  correspond- 
ence with  the  various  dealers  to  whom  doubtless  he  usually 
sold  his  presents.  These  persons  had,  perhaps,  fallen  victims 
to  Gobseck's  cleverness,  or  Gobseck  may  have  wanted  fancy 
prices  for  his  goods;  at  any  rate,  every  bargain  hung  in  sus- 
pense. He  had  not  disposed  of  the  eatables  to  Chevet,  because 
Chevet  would  only  take  them  of  him  at  a  loss  of  thirty  per 
cent.  Gobseck  haggled  for  a  few  francs  between  the  prices, 
and  while  they  wrangled  the  goods  became  unsalable.  Again, 
Gobseck  had  refused  free  delivery  of  his  silver-plate,  and 
declined  to  guarantee  the  weights  of  his  coffees.  There  had 
been  a  dispute  over  each  article,  the  first  indication  in  Gob- 
seck of  the  childishness  and  incomprehensible  obstinacy  of 
age,  a  condition  of  mind  reached  at  last  by  all  men  in  whom 
a  strong  passion  survives  the  intellect. 

"1  said  to  myself,  as  he  had  said,  'To  whom  will  all  these 
riches  go?'  .  .  .  And  when  I  think  of  the  grotesque 


348  GOBSECK 

information  he  gave  me  as  to  the  present  address  of  his  heir- 
ess, I  foresee  that  it  will  be  my  duty  to  search  all  the  houses 
of  ill-fame  in  Paris  to  pour  out  an  immense  fortune  on  some 
worthless  jade.  But,  in  the  first  place,  know  this — that  in  a 
few  days  time  Ernest  de  Eestaud  will  come  into  a  fortune  to 
which  his  title  is  unquestionable,  a  fortune  which  will  put  him 
in  a  position  to  marry  Mile.  Camille,.  even  after  adequate  pro- 
vision has  been  made  for  his  mother  the  Comtesse  de  Eestaud. 
and  his  sister  and  brother.'* 


PIERRE  GRASSOU 

To  Lieutenant-Colonel  Periollas  (of  the  Artillery)  as  a  proof 
of  the  author's  affection  and  esteem. 

DE  BALZAC. 

ON  every  occasion  when  you  have  gone  seriously  to  study  the 
Exhibition  of  works  in  sculpture  and  painting,  such  as  it 
has  been  since  the  Revolution  of  1830,  have  you  not  been 
seized  by  a  feeling  of  discomfort,  boredom,  and  melancholy 
at  the  sight  of  the  long,  over-filled  galleries  ?  Since  1830  the 
Salon  has  ceased  to  exist.  Once  more  the  Louvre  has  been 
taken  by  storm  by  the  mob  of  artists,  and  they  have  kept 
possession.  Formerly,  when  the  Salon  gave  us  a  choice  col- 
lection of  works  of  art,  it  secured  the  greatest  honors  for  the 
examples  exhibited  there.  Among  the  two  hundred  selected 
pictures  the  public  chose  again;  a  crown  was  awarded  to  the 
masterpieces  by  unknown  hands.  Impassioned  discussions 
arose  as  to  the  merits  of  a  painting.  The  abuse  heaped  on 
Delacroix  and  on  Ingres  were  not  of  less  service  to  rhem  than 
the  praises  and  fanaticism  of  their  adherents. 

In  our  day  neither  the  crowd  nor  the  critic  can  be  vehement 
over  the  objects  in  this  bazaar.  Being  compelled  to  make 
the  selection  which  was  formerly  undertaken  by  the  examin- 
ing jury,  their  attention  is  exhausted  by  the  effort;  and  by 
the  time  it  is  finished  the  Exhibition  closes. 

Until  1817  the  pictures  accepted  never  extended  beyond 
the  first  two  columns  of  the  long  gallery  containing  the  works 
of  the  old  masters,  and  this  year  they  filled  the  whole  of  this 
space,  to  the  great  surprise  of  the  public.  Historical  paint- 
ing, genre,  easel  pictures,  landscape,  flowers,  animals,  and 
water-color  painting, — each  of  these  eight  classes  could  never 
yield  more  than  twenty  pictures  worthy  of  the  eye  of  the 

(349) 


350  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

public,  who  cannot  give  attention  to  a  larger  collection  of 
pictures. 

The  more  the  number  of  artists  increases,  the  more  exact- 
ing should  the  jury  of  selection  become.  All  was  lost  as  soon 
as  the  Salon  encroached  further  on  the  gallery.  The  Salon 
should  have  been  kept  within  fixed  and  restricted  limits,  in- 
flexibly defined,  where  each  class  might  exhibit  its  best  works. 
The  experience  of  ten  years  has  proved  the  excellence  of  the 
old  rules.  Instead  of  a  tourney,  you  now  have  a  riot ;  instead 
of  a  glorious  exhibition,  you  have  a  medley  bazaar;  instead 
of  a  selection,  you  have  everything  at  once.  What  is  the 
result?  A  great  artist  is  swamped.  The  Turkish  Cafe,  the 
Children  at  the  Well,  the  Torture  by  Hooks,  and  the  Joseph 
by  Decamps  would  have  done  more  for  his  glory  if  exhibited 
all  four,  in  the  great  room  with  the  hundred  other  good  pict- 
ures of  the  year,  than  his  twenty  canvases  buried  among 
three  thousand  paintings,  and  dispersed  among  six  galleries. 

With  strange  perversity,  since  the  doors  have  been  thrown 
open  to  all,  there  has  been  much  talk  of  unappreciated  genius. 
When,  twelve  years  before,  the  Courtesan,  by  Ingres,  and  Siga- 
lon's  pictures,  Gericault's  Raft  of  the  Medusa,  Delacroix's 
Massacre  of  Scio,  and  Eugene  Deveria's  Baptism  of  Henri 
IV. — accepted,  as  they  were,  by  yet  more  famous  men,  who 
were  taxed  with  jealousy — revealed  to  the  world,  notwith- 
standing the  carping  of  critics,  the  existence  of  youthful  and 
ardent  painters,  not  a  complaint  was  ever  heard.  But  now, 
when  the  veriest  dauber  of  canvas  can  display  his  works,  we 
hear  of  nothing  but  misunderstood  talent.  Where  there  is  no 
longer  any  judgment,  nothing  is  judged.  Our  artists,  do 
what  they  may,  will  come  back  to  the  ordeal  of  selection  which 
recommends  their  work  to  the  admiration  of  the  public  for 
whom  they  toil.  Without  the  choice  exercised  by  the  Acad- 
emy, there  will  be  no  Salon ;  and  without  the  Salon,  art  may 
perish. 

Since  the  catalogue  has  grown  to  be  a  fat  volume,  many 
names  are  found  there  which  remain  obscure,  notwithstand- 
ing the  list  of  ten  or  twelve  pictures  that  follows  them. 


PIERRE  GRASSOTJ  351 

Among  these  names,  the  least  known  of  all  perhaps  is  that 
of  an  artist  named  Pierre  Grassou,  a  native  of  Fougeres,  and 
called,  for  shortness,  Fougeres  in  the  artist  world — a  name 
which  nowadays  fills  so  much  space  on  the  page,  and  which 
has  suggested  the  bitter  reflections  introducing  this  sketch 
of  his  life,  and  applicable  to  some  other  members  of  the  artist 
tribe. 

In  1832  Fougeres  was  living  in  the  Eue  de  Navarin,  on 
the  fourth  floor  of  one  of  those  tall,  narrow  houses  that  are 
like  the  obelisk  of  Luxor,  which  have  a  passage  and  a  dark, 
narrow  staircase  with  dangerous  turnings,  which  are  not  wide 
enough  for  more  than  three  windows  on  each  floor,  and  have 
a  courtyard,  or,  to  be  exact,  a  square  well  at  the  back.  Above 
the  three  or  four  rooms  inhabited  by  Fougeres  was  his  studio, 
looking  out  over  Montmartre.  The  studio,  painted  brick  red; 
the  floor,  carefully  stained  brown  and  polished;  each  chair 
provided  with  a  square,  bordered  mat ;  the  sofa,  plain  enough, 
but  as  clean  as  that  in  a  tradeswoman's  bedroom,  everything 
betrayed  the  petty  existence  of  a  narrow  mind  and  the  care- 
fulness of  a  poor  man.  There  was  a  closet  for  keeping  the 
studio  properties  in,  a  breakfast  table,  a  sideboard,  a  desk, 
and  the  various  objects  necessary  for  painting,  all  clean  and 
in  order.  The  stove,  too,  had  the  benefit  of  this  Dutch  neat- 
ness, which  was  all  the  more  conspicuous  because  the  pure 
and  steady  northern  sky  flooded  the  back  room  with  clear, 
cold  light.  Fougeres,  a  mere  painter  of  genre,  had  no  need 
fcr  the  huge  machinery  which  ruins  historical  painters;  he 
had  never  discerned  in  himself  faculties  competent  to  venture 
on  the  higher  walks  of  art,  and  was  still  content  with  small 
easels. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  December  of  that  year, 
the  season  when  Paris  Philistines  are  periodically  attacked 
by  the  burlesque  idea  of  perpetuating  their  faces — in  them- 
selves a  sufficient  burden — Pierre  Grassou,  having  risen  early, 
was  setting  his  palette,  lighting  his  stove,  eating  a  roll  soaked 
in  milk,  and  waiting  to  work  till  his  window  panes  should 
have  thawed  enough  to  let  daylight  in.  The  weather  was  dry 


352  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

and  fine.  At  this  instant,  the  painter,  eating  with  the  patient, 
resigned  look  that  tells  so  much,  recognized  the  footfall  of  a 
man  who  had  had  the  influence  over  his  life  which  people  of 
his  class  have  in  the  career  of  most  artists — Elias  Magus,  a 
picture  dealer,  an  usurer  in  canvas.  And,  in  fact,  Elias 
Magus  came  in,  at  the  moment  when  the  painter  was  about 
to  begin  work  in  his  elaborately  clean  studio. 

"How  is  yourself,  old  rascal?"  said  the  painter. 

Fougeres  had  won  the  Cross;  Elias  bought  his  pictures 
for  two  or  three  hundred  francs,  and  gave  himself  the  most 
artistic  airs. 

"Business  is  bad,"  replied  Elias.  "You  all  are  such  lords ; 
you  talk  of  two  hundred  francs  as  soon  as  you  have  six  sous 
worth  of  paint  on  the  canvas. — But  you  are  a  very  good  fel- 
low, you  are.  You  are  a  man  of  method,  and  I  have  come 
to  bring  you  a  good  job." 

"Timeo  Danaos  et  dona  ferentes,"  said  Fougeres.  "Do 
you  know  Latin?" 

"No." 

"Well,  that  means  that  the  Greeks  did  not  offer  a  bit  of 
good  business  to  the  Trojans  without  making  something  out 
of  it.  In  those  days  they  used  to  say,  "Take  my  horse.' 
Nowadays  we  say,  'Take  my  trash  V — Well,  what  do  you  want, 
Ulysses-Lagningeole-Elias-Magus?" 

This  speech  shows  the  degree  of  sweetness  and  wit  which 
Fougeres  could  put  into  what  painters  call  studio-chaff. 

"I  don't  say  that  you  will  not  have  to  paint  me  two  pict- 
ures for  nothing." 

"Oh!  oh!" 

"I  leave  it  to  you;  I  do  not  ask  for  them.  You  are  an 
honest  artist." 

"Indeed?" 

"Well.  I  am  bringing  you  a  father,  a  mother,  and  an 
only  daughter." 

"All  unique  specimens  ?" 

"My  word,  yes,  indeed! — to  have  their  portraits  painted. 
The  worthy  folks,  crazy  about  art,  have  never  dared  venture 


PIERRE  GRASSOTJ  353 

into  a  studio.  The  daughter  will  have  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  on  her  marriage.  You  may  do  well  to  paint  such 
people.  Family  portraits  for  yourself,  who  knows?" 

The  old  German  image,  who  passes  muster  as  a  man,  and 
is  called  Elias  Magus,  broke  off  to  laugh  a  dry  cackle  that 
horrified  the  painter.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  heard  Mephis- 
topheles  talking  of  marriage. 

"The  portraits  are  to  be  five  hundred  francs  apiece;  you 
may  give  me  three  pictures." 

"Eight  you  are !"  said  Fougeres  cheerfully. 

"And  if  you  marry  the  daughter,  you  will  not  forget 
me " 

"Marry  ?  I !"  cried  Pierre  Grassou ;  "I,  who  am  used  to  have 
a  bed  to  myself,  to  get  up  early,  whose  life  is  all  laid  out " 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs,"  said  Magus,  "and  a  sweet 
girl,  full  of  golden  lights  like  a  Titian !" 

"And  what  position  do.  these  people  hold  ?" 

"Retired  merchants:  in  love  with  the  arts  at  the  present 
moment ;  they  have  a  country  house  at  Ville-d'Avray,  and  ten 
or  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year." 

"What  was  their  business?" 

"Bottles." 

"Don't  speak  that,  word ;  I  fancy  I  hear  corks  being  cut, 
and  it  sets  my  teeth  on  edge." 

"Well;  am  I  to  bring  them?" 

"Three  portraits;  I  will  send  them  to  the  Salon;  I  might 
go  in  for  portrait-painting. — All  right,  yes." 

And  old  Elias  went  downstairs  to  fetch  the  Vervelle 
family. 

To  understand  exactly  what  the  outcome  of  such  a  pro- 
posal would  be  on  the  painter,  and  the  effect  produced  on 
him  by  Monsieur  and  Madame  Vervelle,  graced  by  the  ad- 
dition of  their  only  daughter,  it  is  necessary  to  glance  for 
a  moment  at  the  past  life  of  Pierre  Grassou  of  Fougeres. 
As  a  pupil,  he  had  learned  to  draw  of  Servin,  who  was  re- 
garded in  the  academical  world  as  a  great  draughtsman. 
He  afterwards  worked  under  Schinner,  to  discover  the  secrets 
VOL.  5—47 


354  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

of  the  powerful  and  splendid  coloring  that  characterizes  that 
master.  The  master  and  his  disciples  had  kept  the  secrets; 
Pierre  had  discovered  nothing.  From  thence  Fougeres  had 
gone  to  Sommervieux's  studio  to  familiarize  himself  with 
that  part  of  art  which  is  called  composition;  but  composi- 
tion was  shy  and  held  aloof  from  him.  Then  he  had  tried 
to  steal  from  Granet  and  Drolling  the  mystery  of  their 
luminous  interiors;  the  two  masters  had  not  allowed  him 
to  rob  them.  Finally,  Fougeres  had  finished  his  training  un- 
der Duval-Lecamus. 

Through  all  these  studies  and  various  transformations, 
Fougeres'  quiet,  steady  habits  had  furnished  materials  for 
mockery  in  every  studio  where  he  had  worked;  but  he  every- 
where disarmed  his  comrades  by  his  diffidence  and  his  lamb- 
like patience  and  meekness.  The  masters  had  no  sympathy 
with  this  worthy  lad ;  masters  like  brilliant  fellows,  eccentric 
spirits,  farcical  and  fiery,  or  gloomy  and  deeply  meditative, 
promising  future  talent.  Everything  in  Fougeres  proclaimed 
mediocrity.  His  nickname  of  Fougeres — the  name  of  the 
painter  in  the  play  by  Fabre  d'Eglantine — was  the  pretext 
for  endless  affronts,  but  by  force  of  circumstances  he  was 
saddled  with  the  name  of  the  town  "where  he  first  saw  the 
light." 

Grassou  de  Fougeres  matched  his  name.  Plump  and 
rather  short,  he  had  a  dull  complexion,  brown  eyes,  black  hair, 
a  thick  prominent  nose,  a  rather  wide  mouth,  and  long  ears. 
His  placid,  gentle,  resigned  expression  did  little  to  improve 
these  features  of  a  face  that  was  full  of  health  but  not  of 
movement.  He  could  never  suffer  from  the  flow  of  blood,  the 
vehemence  of  thought,  or  the  spirit  of  comedy  by  which  a 
great  artist  is  to  be  known.  This  youth,  born  to  be  a  vir- 
tuous citizen,  had  come  from  his  provincial  home  to  serve 
as  shop  clerk  to  a  color-man,  a  native  of  Mayenne,  dis- 
tantly related  to  the  d'Orgemonts,  and  he  had  made  himself 
a  painter  by  the  sheer  obstinacy  which  is  the  backbone  of  the 
Breton  character.  What  he  had  endured,  and  the  way  in 
which  he  lived  during  his  period  of  study,  &od  alone  knows. 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  855 

He  suffered  as  much  as  great  men  suffer  when  they  are 
haunted  by  want,  and  hunted  down  like  wild  beasts  by  the 
pack  of  inferior  souls,  and  the  whole  army  of  vanity  thirsting 
for  revenge. 

As  soon  as  he  thought  himself  strong  enough  for  flight 
on  his  own  wings,  he  took  a  studio  at  the  top  of  the  Rue  des 
Martyrs,  and  there  he  began  to  work.  He  first  sent  in  a 
picture  in  1819.  The  picture  he  offered  the  jury  for  their 
exhibition  at  the  Louvre  represented  a  Village  Wedding,  a 
laborious  imitation  of  Greuze's  picture.  It  was  refused. 
When  Fougeres  heard  the  fatal  sentence,  he  did  not  fly  into 
those  furies  or  fits  of  epileptic  vanity  to  which  proud  spirits 
are  liable,  and  which  sometimes  end  in  a  challenge  sent  to 
the  President  or  the  Secretary,  or  in  threats  of  assassination. 
Fougeres  calmly  received  his  picture  back,  wrapped  it  in  a 
handkerchief,  and  brought  it  home  to  his  studio  swearing 
that  he  would  yet  become  a  great  painter. 

He  placed  the  canvas  on  the  easel  and  went  to  call  on  his 
old  master,  a  man  of  immense  talent — Schinner — a  gentle 
and  patient  artist,  whose  success  had  been  brilliant  in  the 
last  Salon.  He  begged  him  to  come  and  criticise  the  re- 
jected work.  The  great  painter  left  everything  and  went. 
When  poor  Fougeres  had  placed  him  in  front  of  the  paint- 
ing, Schinner  at  the  first  glance  took  Fougeres  by  the  hand: 

"You  are  a  capital  good  fellow;  you  have  a  heart  of  gold, 
it  will  not  be  fair  to  deceive  you.  Listen;  you  have  kept  all 
the  promise  you  showed  at  the  studio.  When  a  man  has 
such  stuff  as  that  at  the  end  of  his  brush,  my  good  fellow, 
he  had  better  leave  his  paints  in  Brullon's  shop,  and  not  de- 
prive others  of  the  canvas.  Get  home  early,  pull  on  your 
cotton  night-cap,  be  in  bed  by  nine;  and  to-morrow  morn- 
ing at  ten  o'clock  go  to  some  office  and  ask  for  work,  and  have 
done  with  art." 

"My  good  friend,"  said  Fougeres,  "my  picture  is  con- 
demned already.  It  is  not  a  verdict  that  I  want,  but  the  rea- 
sons for  it." 

<fWell,  then,  your  tone  is  gray  and  cold;  you  see  nature 


356  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

through  a  crape  veil;  your  drawing  is  heavy  and  clumsy; 
your  composition  is  borrowed  from  Greuze,  who  only  re- 
deemed his  faults  by  qualities  which  you  have  not." 

As  he  pointed  out  the  faults  of  the  picture,  Schinner  saw 
in  Fougeres'  face  so  deep  an  expression  of  grief  that  he  took 
him  away  to  dine,  and  tried  to  comfort  him. 

Next  day,  by  seven  in  the  morning,  Fougeres,  before  his 
easel,  was  working  over  the  condemned  canvas;  he  warmed 
up  the  color,  made  the  corrections  suggested  by  Schinner, 
and  touched  up  the  figures.  Then,  sick  of  such  patching, 
he  took  it  to  Elias  Magus.  Elias  Magus,  being  a  sort  of 
Dutch-Belgian-Fleming,  had  three  reasons  for  being  what 
he  was — miserly  and  rich.  He  had  lately  come  from  Bor- 
deaux, and  was  starting  in  business  in  Paris  as  a  picture- 
dealer;  he  lived  on  the  Boulevard  Bonne-lSTouvelle.  Fou- 
geres, who  trusted  to  his  palette  to  take  him  to  the  baker's, 
bravely  ate  bread  and  walnuts,  or  bread  and  milk,  or  bread 
and  cherries,  or  bread  and  cheese,  according  to  the  season. 
Elias  Magus,  to  whom  Pierre  offered  his  first  picture,  eyed 
it  for  a  long  time,  and  then  gave  him  fifteen  francs. 

"Taking  fifteen  francs  a  year  and  spending  a  thousand,  I 
shall  go  fast  and  far,"  said  Fougeres,  smiling. 

Elias  Magus  gave  a  shrug  and  bit  his  thumb  at  the  thought 
that  he  might  have  had  the  picture  for  five  francs.  Every 
morning,  for  some  days,  Fougeres  went  down  to  the  Rue  des 
Martyrs,  lost  himself  in  the  crowd  in  the  boulevard  opposite 
Magus'  shop,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  picture — which  did  not 
attract  the  gaze  of  the  passers-by.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
week  the  picture  disappeared.  Fougeres  wandered  up  the 
boulevard  towards  the  picture-dealer's  shop  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  amusing  himself.  The  Jew  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Well,  you  have  sold  my  picture?" 

"There  it  is,"  said  Magus.  "I  am  having  it  framed  to  show 
to  some  man  who  fancies  himself  knowing  in  paintings." 

Fougeres  did  not  dare  to  come  along  the  boulevard  any 
more.  He  began  a  new  picture;  for  two  months  he  labored 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  337 

at  it,  feeding  like  a  mouse  and  working  like  a  galley-slave. 
One  evening  he  walked  out  on  the  boulevard;  his  feet  car- 
ried him  involuntarily  to  Magus'  shop;  he  could  nowhere 
see  his  picture. 

"I  have  sold  your  picture/'  said  the  dealer  to  the  artist. 

"For  how  much?" 

"I  got  my  money  back  with  a  little  interest.  Paint  me 
some  Flemish  interiors,  an  Anatomy  lecture,  a  landscape; 
I  will  take  them  of  you,"  said  Elias. 

Fougeres  could  have  hugged  Magus  in  his  arms ;  he  looked 
upon  him  as  a  father.  He  went  home  with  joy  in  his  heart. 
Then  Schinner,  the  great  Schinner,  was  mistaken!  In  that 
vast  city  of  Paris  there  were  some  hearts  that  beat  in  unison 
with  that  of  Grassou;  his  talent  was  discerned  and  appre- 
ciated ! 

The  poor  fellow,  at  seven-and-twenty,  had  the  artlessness 
of  a  boy  of  sixteen.  Any  one  else,  one  of  your  distrustful, 
suspicious  artists,  would  have  noticed  Elias'  diabolical  ex- 
pression, have  seen  the  quiver  of  his  beard,  the  ironical  curl 
of  his  moustache,  the  action  of  his  shoulders,  all  betraying 
the  satisfaction  of  Walter  Scott's  Jew  cheating  a  Christian. 
Fougeres  paraded  the  boulevards  with  a  joy  that  gave  his  face 
an  expression  of  pride.  He  looked  like  a  schoolboy  pro- 
tecting a  woman.  He  met  Joseph  Bridau,  one  of  his  fellow- 
students,  one  of  those  eccentric  men  of  genius  who  are  pre- 
destined to  glory  and  disaster.  Joseph  Bridau,  having  a 
few  sous  in  his  pocket,  as  he  expressed  it,  took  Fougeres  to  the 
opera.  Fougeres  did  not  see  the  ballet,  did  not  hear  the 
music;  he  was  imagining  pictures,  he  was  painting. 

He  left  Joseph  half-way  through  the  evening,  and  ran 
home  to  make  sketches  by  lamplight ;  he  invented  thirty  pict- 
ures, full  of  reminiscences,  and  believed  himself  a  genius. 
Next  day  he  bought  some  colors  and  canvases  of  various 
sizes :  he  spread  out  some  bread  and  some  cheese  on  his  table; 
he  got  some  water  in  a  jug,  and  a  store  of  wood  for  his  stove ; 
then,  to  use  the  studio  phrase,  he  pegged  away  at  his  paint- 
ing; he  employed  a  few  models,  and  Magus  lent  him 


358  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

draperies.  After  two  months  of  seclusion,  the  Breton  had 
finished  four  pictures.  He  again  asked  Schinner's  advice, 
with  the  addition  of  Joseph  Bridau's.  The  two  painters 
found  these  works  to  be  a  servile  imitation  of  Dutch  land- 
scapes, of  Metzu's  interiors,  and  the  fourth  was  a  version  of 
Rembrandt's  Anatomy  lecture. 

"Always  imitations !"  said  Schinner.  "Ah !  Fougeres 
would  find  it  hard  to  be  original." 

"You  ought  to  turn  your  attention  to  something  else  than 
painting,"  said  Bridau. 

"To  what?"  said  Fougeres. 

"Go  in  for  literature." 

Fougeres  bent  his  head  as  sheep  do  before  rain.  Then  he 
asked  and  got  some  practical  advice,  touched  up  his  paint- 
ings, and  carried  them  to  Elias.  Elias  gave  him  twenty-five 
francs  for  each.  At  this  price  Fougeres  made  nothing,  but, 
thanks  to  his  abstemiousness,  he  lost  nothing.  He  took  some 
walks  to  see  what  became  of  his  pictures,  and  had  a  singular 
hallucination.  His  works,  so  firmly  painted,  so  neat,  as  hard 
as  tin-plate  iron,  and  as  shining  as  painting  on  porcelain, 
seemed  to  be  covered  with  a  fog;  they  looked  quite  like  old 
masters. 

Elias  had  just  gone  out;  Fougeres  could  obtain  no  in- 
formation as  to  this  phenomenon.  He  thought  his  eyes  de- 
ceived him. 

The  painter  went  home  to  his  studio  to  make  new  old 
masters.  After  seven  years  of  constant  work,  Fougeres  was 
able  to  compose  and  paint  fairly  good  pictures.  He  did  as 
well  as  all  the  other  artists  of  the  second  class.  Elias  bought 
and  sold  all  the  poor  Breton's  pictures,  while  he  laboriously 
earned  a  hundred  louis  a  year,  and  did  not  spend  more  than 
twelve  hundred  francs. 

At  the  Exhibition  of  1829,  Leon  de  Lora,  Schinner,  and 
Bridau,  who  all  three  filled  a  large  space,  and  were  at  the 
head  of  the  new  movement  in  art,  took  pity  on  their  old  com- 
rade's perseverance  and  poverty;  they  managed  to  get  a 
picture  by  Fougeres  accepted  and  hung  in  the  great  room. 


PIERRE  GRASSOD  359 

This  work,  of  thrilling  interest,  recalling  Vigneron  in  its 
sentiment,  and  Dubufe's  early  manner  in  its  execution,  repre- 
sented a  young  man  in  prison  having  the  back  of  his  head 
shaved.  On  one  side  stood  a  priest,  on  the  other  a  young 
woman  in  tears.  A  lawyer's  clerk  was  reading  an  official 
document.  On  a  wretched  table  stood  a  meal  which  no  one 
had  eaten.  The  light  came  in  through  the  bars  of  a  high 
window.  It  was  enough  to  make  the  good  folks  shudder,  and 
they  shuddered. 

Fougeres  had  borrowed  directly  from  Gerard  Dow's  mas- 
terpiece: he  had  turned  the  group  of  the  Dropsical  Woman 
towards  the  window  instead  of  facing  the  spectator.  He  had 
put  the  condemned  prisoner  in  the  place  of  the  dying 
woman — the  same  pallor,  the  same  look,  the  same  appeal  to 
heaven.  Instead  of  the  Dutch  physician,  there  was  the  rigid 
official  figure  of  the  clerk  dressed  in  black ;  but  he  had  added 
an  old  woman  by  the  side  of  Gerard  Dow's  young  girl.  The 
cruelly  good-humored  face  of  the  executioner  crowned  the 
group.  The  plagiarism,  skilfully  concealed,  was  not  recog- 
nized. 

The  catalogue  contained  these  words : — 

510,  GRASSOU  DE  FOUGERES  (PIERRE),  Eue  de  Navarin,  2. 
The  Chouan's  Toilet;  condemned  to  Death,  1809. 

Though  quite  mediocre,'  the  picture  had  a  prodigious  suc- 
cess, for  it  reminded  the  spectators  of  the  affair  of  the  rob- 
bers— known  as  the  Chauffeurs — of  Mortagne.  A  crowd 
collected  every  day  in  front  of  the  picture,  which  became  the 
fashion,  and  Charles  X.  stopped  to  look  at  it.  Madame,  hav- 
ing heard  of  the  poor  Breton's  patient  life,  grew  enthusiastic 
about  him.  The  Due  d'Orleans  asked  the  price  of  the  paint- 
Jng.  The  priests  told  Madame  the  Dauphiness  that  the 
work  was  full  of  pious  feeling ;  it  had  no  doubt  a  very  satis- 
factory suggestion  of  religion.  Monseigneur  the  Dauphin 
admired  the  dust  on  the  window  panes,  a  stupid,  dull  mis- 
take, for  what  Fougeres  had  intended  was  a  greenish  tone, 


360  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

which  spoke  of  damp  at  the  bottom  of  the  walls.  Madame 
bought  the  picture  for  a  thousand  francs,  and  the  Dauphin 
gave  a  commission  for  another.  Charles  X.  bestowed  the 
Cross  on  this  son  of  a  peasant  who  had  fought  for  the  Eoyal 
Cause  in  1799;  Joseph  Bridau,  a  great  painter,  was  not 
decorated.  The  Minister  of  the  Interior  ordered  two  sacred 
pictures  for  the  church  at  Fougeres.  This  Salon  was  to 
Pierre  Grassou  fortune,  glory,  a  future,  and  life. 

To  invent  in  any  kind  is  to  die  by  inches;  to  copy  is  to 
live.  Having  at  last  discovered  a  vein  full  of  gold,  Grassou 
of  Fougeres  practised  that  part  of  this  barbarous  maxim  to 
which  the  world  owes  the  atrocious  mediocrity  whose  duty 
it  is  to  elect  its  superiors  in  every  class  of  society,  but  which 
naturally  elects  itself,  and  wages  pitiless  war  against  all  real 
talent.  The  principle  of  election  universally  applied  is  a  bad 
one;  France  will  get  over  it.  At  the  same  time,  Fougeres 
was  so  gentle  and  kind  that  his  modesty,  his  simplicity,  and 
his  astonishment  silenced  recriminations  and  envy.  Then, 
again,  he  had  on  his  side  all  the  successful  Grassous,  repre- 
senting all  the  Grassous  to  come.  Some  people,  touched  by 
the  energy  of  a  man  whom  nothing  had  discouraged,  spoke 
of  Domenichino,  and  said,  "Hard  work  in  the  arts  must  be 
rewarded.  Grassou  has  earned  his  success.  He  has  been 
pegging  at  it  for  ten  years,  poor  old  fellow !" 

This  exclamation,  "poor  old  fellow !"  counted  for  a  great 
deal  in  the  support  and  congratulations  the  painter  received. 
Pity  elevates  as  many  second-rate  talents  as  envy  runs  down 
great  artists.  The  newspapers  had  not  been  sparing  of  criti- 
cism, but  the  Chevalier  Fougeres  took  it  all  as  he  took  his 
friend's  advice,  with  angelic  patience.  Eich  now,  with  fif- 
teen thousand  francs  very  hardly  earned,  he  furnished  his 
rooms  and  his  studio  in  the  Rue  de  Navarin,  he  painted  the 
picture  ordered  by  Monseigneur  the  Dauphin,  and  the  two 
sacred  works  commanded  by  the  Minister,  finishing  them  to 
the  day,  with  a  punctuality  perfectly  distracting  to  the 
cashier  of  the  Ministry,  accustomed  to  quite  other  ways.  But 
note  the  good  luck  of  methodical  people !  If  he  had  delayed, 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  361 

Grassou,  overtaken  by  the  revolution  of  July,  would  never 
have  been  paid. 

By  the  time  he  was  seven-and-thirty  Fougeres  had  manu- 
factured for  Eli  as  Magus  about  two  hundred  pictures,  all 
perfectly  unknown,  but  by  which  he  had  gained  with  prac- 
tice that  satisfactory  handling,  that  pitch  of  dexterity  at 
which  an  artist  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  which  is  dear  to 
the  Philistine.  Fougeres  was  loved  by  his  friends  for  his 
rectitude  of  mind  and  steadfastness  of  feeling,  for  his  per- 
fectly obliging  temper  and  loyal  spirit;  though  they  had  no 
respect  for  his  palette,  they  were  attached  to  the  man  who 
held  it. 

"What  a  pity  that  Fougeres  should  indulge  in  the  vice 
of  painting!"  his  friends  would  say. 

Grassou,  however,  could  give  sound  advice,  like  the  news- 
paper writers,  who  are  incapable  of  producing  a  book,  but 
who  know  full  well  where  a  book  is  faulty.  But  there  was 
a  difference  between  Fougeres  and  these  literary  critics;  he 
was  keenly  alive  to  every  beauty,  he  acknowledged  it,  and  his 
advice  was  stamped  with  a  sense  of  justice  which  made  his 
strictures  acceptable. 

After  the  revolution  of  July  Fougeres  sent  in  ten  or  more 
paintings  to  every  exhibition,  of  which  the  jury  would  ac- 
cept four  or  five.  He  lived  with  the  strictest  economy,  and 
his  whole  household  consisted  of  a  woman  to  manage  the 
housework.  His  amusements  lay  solely  in  visits  to  his 
friends,  and  in  going  to  see  works  of  art;  he  treated  him- 
self to  some  little  tours  in  France,  and  dreamed  of  seeing 
inspiration  in  Switzerland.  This  wretched  artist  was  a 
good  citizen ;  he  served  in  the  Guard,  turned  out  for  inspec- 
tion, and  paid  his  rent  and  bills  with  the  vulgarest  punctu- 
ality. Having  lived  in  hard  work  and  penury,  he  had  never 
had  time  to  be  in  love.  A  bachelor  and  poor,  up  to  the  present 
day  he  had  had  no  wish  to  complicate  his  simple  existence. 

Having  no  idea  of  any  way  of  increasing  his  wealth,  he 
took  his  savings  and  his  earnings  every  quarter  to  his  notary, 
Cardot.  When  the  notary  had  a  thousand  crowns  in  hand, 


362  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

he  invested  them  in  a  first  mortgage,  with  substitution  in 
favor  of  the  wife's  rights  if  the  borrower  should  marry,  or  in 
favor  of  the  seller  if  the  borrower  should  wish  to  pay  it  off. 
The  notary  drew  the  interest  and  added  it  to  the  sums  de- 
posited by  Grassou  de  Fougeres.  The  painter  looked  for- 
ward to  the  happy  day  when  his  investments  should  reach 
the  imposing  figure  of  two  thousand  francs  a  year,  when  he 
would  indulge  in  the  otium  cum  dignitate  of  an  artist  and 
paint  pictures — oh!  but  such  pictures!  Real  pictures,  fin- 
ished pictures — something  like,  clipping,  stunning!  His 
fondest  hope,  his  dream  of  joy,  the  climax  of  all  his  hopes — 
would  you  like  to  know  it?  It  was  to  be  elected  to  the  In- 
stitute and  wear  the  rosette  of  the  officers  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor !  To  sit  by  Schinner  and  Leon  de  Lora !  To  get  into 
the  Academy  before  Bridau!  To  have  a  rosette  in  his  but- 
ton-hole.— What  a  vision !  Only  your  commonplace  mind 
can  think  of  everything. 

On  hearing  several  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  Fougeres  pushed 
his  fingers  through  his  top-knot  of  hair,  buttoned  his  bottle- 
green  waistcoat,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  face  of  the  kind  known  in  the  studio  as  a  melon. 
This  fruit  was  perched  on  a  pumpkin  dressed  in  blue  cloth, 
and  graced  with  a  dangling  bunch  of  jingling  seals.  The 
melon  snorted  like  a  porpoise,  the  pumpkin  walked  on  turnips 
incorrectly  called  legs.  A  real  artist  would  at  once  have 
sketched  such  a  caricature  of  the  bottle  merchant  and  then 
have  shown  him  out,  saying  that  he  did  not  paint  vegetables. 
Fougeres  looked  at  his  customer  without  laughing,  for  M. 
Yervelle  wore  in  his  shirt-front  a  diamond  worth  a  thou- 
sand crowns.  Fougeres  glanced  at  Magus,  and  said  in  the 
studio  slang  of  the  day,  "A  fat  job,"  meaning  that  the  worthy 
was  rich. 

M.  Vervelle  heard  it  and  frowned.  He  brought  in  his  train 
some  other  vegetable  combinations  in  the  persons  of  his  wife 
and  daughter.  The  wife  had  in  her  face  a  fine  mahogany 
tone;  she  looked  like  a  cocoanut  surmounted  by  a  head  and 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  363 

tightened  in  with  a  belt;  she  twirled  round  on  her  feet;  her 
dress  was  yellow,  with  black  stripes.  She  proudly  dis- 
played absurd  mittens  on  a  pair  of  hands  as  swollen  as  a 
glover's  sign.  The  feathers  of  a  first-class  funeral  waved 
over  a  coal-scuttle  bonnet ;  lace  frills  covered  a  figure  as  round 
behind  as  before,  thus  the  spherical  form  of  the  cocoanut 
was  perfect.  Her  feet,  which  a  painter  would  have  termed 
hoofs,  had  a  garnish  of  half-an-inch  of  fat  projecting  beyond 
her  patent-leather  shoes.  How  had  her  feet  been  got  into  the 
shoes?  Who  can  tell? 

Behind  her  came  a  young  asparagus  shoot,  green  and  yel- 
low as  to  her  dress,  with  a  small  head  covered  with  hair  in  flat 
braids  of  a  carroty  yellow  which  a  Eoman  would  have  adored, 
thread-paper  arms,  a  fairly  white  but  freckled  skin,  large 
innocent  -eyes,  with  colorless  lashes  and  faintly  marked  eye- 
brows, a  Leghorn  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  a  couple  of  honest 
white  satin  bows,  and  bound  with  white  satin,  virtuously  red 
hands,  and  feet  like  her  mother's. 

These  three  persons,  as  they  looked  round  the  studio,  had 
a  look  of  beatitude  which  showed  a  highly-respectable  en- 
thusiasm for  art. 

"And  it  is  you,  sir,  who  are  going  to  take  our  likenesses?" 
said  the  father,  assuming  a  little  dashing  air. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Grassou. 

"Vervelle,  he  has  the  Cross,"  said  the  wife  to  her  hus- 
band in  a  whisper  while  the  painter's  back  was  turned. 

"Should  I  have  our  portraits  painted  by  an  artist  who  was 
not  'decorated'?"  retorted  the  bottle-merchant. 

Elias  Magus  bowed  to  the  Vervelle  family  and  went  away. 
Grassou  followed  him  on  to  the  landing. 

"Who  but  you  would  have  discovered  such  a  set  of 
phizzes  ?" 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs  in  settlement !" 

"Yes,  but  what  a  family !" 

"And  three  hundred  thousand  francs  in  expectations,  a 
house  in  the  Rue  Boucherat,  and  a  country  place  at  Ville 
d'Avray." 


364  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

"Boucherat,  bottles,  bumpkins,  and  bounce!"  said  the 
painter. 

"You  will  be  out  of  want  for  the  rest  of  your  days,"  said 
Elias. 

This  idea  flashed  into  Pierre  Grassou's  brain  as  the  morn- 
ing light  had  broken  on  his  attic.  As  he  placed  the  young 
lady's  father  in  position,  he  thought  him  really  good-looking, 
and  admired  his  face  with  its  strong  purple  tones.  The 
mother  and  daughter  hovered  round  the  painter,  wondering 
at  all  his  preparations ;  to  them  he  seemed  a  god.  This  visible 
adoration  was  pleasing  to  Fougeres.  The  golden  calf  cast 
its  fantastic  reflection  on  this  family. 

"You  must  earn  enormous  sums;  but  you  spend  it  as  fast 
as  you  get  it?"  said  the  mother. 

"No,  madame,"  replied  the  painter,  "I  do  not  spend.  I 
have  not  means  to  amuse  myself.  My  notary  invests  my 
money;  he  knows  what  I  have,  and  when  once  the  money  is 
in  his  hands  I  think  no  more  about  it." 

"And  I  have  always  been  told  that  painters  were  a  thrift- 
less set !"  said  father  Vervelle. 

"Who  is  your  notary,  if  it  is  not  too  great  a  liberty  ?"  said 
Madame  Vervelle. 

"A  capital  fellow  all  round — Cardot." 

"Lord!  lord!  Isn't  that  funny  nowl"  said  Vervelle. 
"Why,  Cardot  is  ours  too." 

"Do  not  move,"  said  the  painter. 

"Sit  still,  do,  Antenor,"  said  his  wife;  "you  will  put  the 
gentleman  out;  if  you  could  see  him  working  you  would 
understand." 

"Gracious  me,  why  did  you  never  have  me  taught  art?" 
said  Mademoiselle  Vervelle  to  her  parents. 

"Virginie !"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "there  are  certain 
things  a  young  lady  cannot  learn.  When  you  are  married — 
well  and  good.  Till  then  be  content." 

In  the  course  of  this  first  sitting  the  Vervelle  family  be- 
came almost  intimate  with  the  worthy  artist.  They  were  to 
come  again  two  days  after.  After  they  left,  the  father  and 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  365 

mother  desired  Virginie  to  go  first;  but  in  spite  of  the  dis- 
tance between  them,  she  heard  these  words,  of  which  the 
meaning  must  have  roused  her  curiosity: 

"Decore — thirty-seven — an  artist  who  gets  commissions, 
and  places  his  money  in  our  notary's  hands.  We  will  consult 
Cardot.  Madame  de  Fougeres,  heh!  not  a  bad  name!  He 
does  not  look  like  a  bad  fellow !  A  man  of  business,  you 
would  say?  But  so  long  as  a  merchant  has  not  retired  from 
business,  you  can  never  tell  what  your  daughter  may  come 
to ;  while  an  artist  who  saves. — And  then  we  are  fond  of  art. 
—Well,  well ! " 

While  the  Vervelles  were  discussing  him,  Pierre  Grassou 
was  thinking  of  the  Vervelles.  He  found  it  impossible  to 
remain  quietly  in  his  studio;  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
boulevard,  looking  at  every  red-haired  woman  who  went  by! 
He  argued  with  himself  in  the  strangest  way :  Gold  was  the 
most  splendid  of  the  metals,  yellow  stood  for  gold;  the  an- 
cient Romans  liked  red-haired  women,  and  he  became  a 
Eoman,  and  so  forth.  After  being  married  two  years,  what 
does  a  man  care  for  his  wife's  complexion?  Beauty  fades — 
but  ugliness  remains !  Money  is  half  of  happiness.  That 
evening,  when  he  went  to  bed,  the  painter  had  already  per- 
suaded himself  that  Virginie  Vervelle  was  charming. 

When  the  trio  walked  in  on  the  day  fixed  for  the  second 
sitting,  the  artist  received  them  with  an  amiable  smile.  The 
rogue  had  shaved,  had  put  on  a  clean  white  shirt;  he  had 
chosen  a  becoming  pair  of  trousers,  and  red  slippers  with 
Turkish  toes.  The  family  responded  with  a  smile  as  flatter- 
ing as  the  artist's ;  Virginie  turned  as  red  as  her  hair,  dropped 
her  eyes,  and  turned  away  her  head,  looking  at  the  studies. 
Pierre  Grassou  thought  these  little  affectations  quite  bewitch- 
ing. Virginie  was  graceful;  happily,  she  was  like  neither 
father  nor  mother.  But  whom  was  she  like? 

"Ah,  I  see/'  said  he  to  himself ;  "the  mother  has  had  an  eye 
to  business." 

During  the  sitting  there  was  a  war  of  wits  between  the 
family  and  the  painter,  who  was  so  audacious  as  to  say  that 


306  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

father  Vervelle  was  witty.  After  this  piece  of  flattery  the 
family  took  possession  of  the  painter's  heart  in  double-quick 
time;  he  gave  one  of  his  drawings  to  Virginie,  and  a  sketch 
to  her  mother. 

"For  nothing  ?"  they  asked. 

Pierre  Grassou  could  not  help  smiling. 

"You  must  not  give  your  works  away  like  this;  they  are 
money,"  said  Vervelle. 

At  the  third  sitting  old  Vervelle  spoke  of  a  fine  collection 
of  pictures  he  had  in  his  country  house  at  Ville  d'Avray — 
Kubens,  Gerard  Dow,  Mieris,  Terburg,  Kembrandt,  a  Titian, 
Paul  Potter,  etc. 

"M.Vervelle  has  been  frightfully  extravagant,"  said  Ma- 
dame Vervelle  pompously.  "He  has  a  hundred  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  pictures." 

"I  am  fond  of  the  arts,"  said  the  bottle-merchant. 

When  Madame  Vervelle's  portrait  was  begun,  that  of  her 
husband  was  nearly  finished.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  family 
now  knew  no  bounds.  The  notary  had  praised  the  artist  in 
the  highest  terms.  Pierre  Grassou  was  in  his  opinion  the 
best  fellow  on  earth,  one  of  the  steadiest  of  artists,  who  had 
indeed  saved  thirty-six  thousand  francs;  his  days  of  poverty 
were  past;  he  was  making  ten  thousand  francs  a  year,  he 
was  reinvesting  his  interest,  and  he  was  incapable  of  making 
a  woman  unhappy.  This  last  sentence  was  of  great  weight 
in  the  scale.  The  friends  of  the  family  heard  nothing  talked 
of  but  the  celebrated  Fougeres. 

By  the  time  Fougeres  began  the  portrait  of  Virginie  he 
was  already  the  son-in-law  elect  of  the  Vervelle  couple.  The 
trio  expanded  in  this  studio,  which  they  had  begun  to  regard 
as  a  home;  there  was  an  inexplicable  attraction  to  them  in 
this  cleaned,  cared-for,  neat,  artistic  spot.  Abyssus  abyssum, 
like  to  like. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  sitting  the  stairs  were  shaken, 
the  door  was  flung  open,  and  in  came  Joseph  Bridau ;  he  rode 
the  whirlwind,  his  hair  was  flying ;  in  he  came  with  his  broad, 
deeply-seamed  face,  shot  lightning  glances  all  round  the 


By  the  time  Fougeres  began  the  portrait  of  Virginie  hi 
already  the  sou-in-law  elect  of  the  Vervelle  couple 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  367 

room,  and  came  suddenly  up  to  Grassou,  pulling  his  coat 
across  the  gastric  region,  and  trying  to  button  it,  but  in  vain, 
for  the  button  mold  had  escaped  from  its  cloth  cover. 

"Times  are  bad,"  he  said  to  Grassou. 

"Hah?" 

"The  duns  are  at  my  heels. — Hallo !  are  you  painting  that 
sort  of  thing  ?" 

"Hold  your  tongue !" 

"To  be  sure " 

The  Vervelle  family,  excessively  taken  aback  by  this  ap- 
parition, turned  from  the  usual  red  to  the  cherry  scarlet  of  a 
fierce  fire. 

"It  pays,"  said  Joseph.  "Have  you  any  shot  in  your 
locker?" 

"Do  you  want  much?" 

"A  five  hundred  franc  note.  .  .  .  There  is  a  party 
after  me  of  the  bloodhound  kind,  who,  when  once  they  have 
set  their  teeth,  do  not  let  go  without  having  the  piece  out. 
What  a  set !" 

"I  will  give  you  a  line  to  my  notary " 

"What !  have  you  a  notary  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  that  accounts  for  your  still  painting  cheeks  rose- 
pink,  only  fit  for  a  hair-dresser's  doll !" 

Grassou  could  not  help  reddening,  for  Virginie  was  sitting 
to  him. 

"Paint  nature  as  it  is,"  the  great  painter  went  on.  "Made- 
moiselle is  red-haired.  Well,  is  that  a  deadly  sin?  Every- 
thing is  fine  in  painting.  Squeeze  me  out  some  cinnabar, 
warm  up  those  cheeks,  give  me  those  little  brown  freckles, 
butter  your  canvas  boldly !  Do  you  want  to  do  better  than 
Nature?" 

"Here,"  said  Fougeres,  "take  my  place  while  I  write." 

Vervelle  waddled  to  the  writing-table  and  spoke  in  Gras- 
sou's  ear. 

"That  interfering  muddler  will  spoil  it,"  said  the  bottle- 
merchant. 


368  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

"If  lie  would  paint  your  Virginia's  portrait,  it  would  be 
worth  a  thousand  of  mine,"  replied  Fougeres  indignantly. 

On  hearing  this,  the  goodman  quietly  beat  a  retreat  to  join 
his  wife,  who  sat  bewildered  at  the  invasion  of  this  wild 
beast,  and  not  at  all  happy  at  seeing  him  co-operating  in  her 
daughter's  portrait. 

"There,  carry  out  those  hints,"  said  Bridau,  returning  the 
palette,  and  taking  the  note.  "I  will  not  thank  you. — I  can 
get  back  to  D'Arthez's  chateau;  I  am  painting  a  dining- 
room  for  him,  and  Leon  de  Lora  is  doing  panels  over  the 
doors — masterpieces.  Come  and  see  us !" 

He  went  off  without  bowing  even,  so  sick  was  he  of  looking 
at  Virginie. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  asked  Madame  Vervelle. 

"A  great  artist,"  replied  Grassou. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  said  Virginie,  "that  he  has  brought 
no  ill-luck  to  my  portrait?  ...  He  frightened  me." 

"He  has  only  improved  it,"  said  Grassou. 

"If  he  is  a  great  artist,  I  prefer  a  great  artist  like  you," 
said  Madame  Vervelle. 

"Oh,  mamma,  Monsieur  Fougeres  is  a  much  greater  artist. 
He  will  take  me  full  length,"  remarked  Virginie. 

The  eccentricities  of  genius  had  scared  these  steadygoing 
Philistines. 

The  year  had  now  reached  that  pleasant  autumn  season 
prettily  called  Saint-Martin's  summer.  It  was  with  the  shy- 
ness of  a  neophyte  in  the  presence  of  a  man  of  genius  that 
Vervelle  ventured  to  invite  Grassou  to  spend  the  following 
Sunday  at  his  country  house.  He  knew  how  little  attraction 
a  bourgeois  family  could  offer  to  an  artist. 

"You  artists,"  said  he,  "must  have  excitement,  fine  scenes, 
and  clever  company.  But  I  can  give  you  some  good  wine, 
and  I  rely  on  my  pictures  to  make  up  for  the  dulness  an 
artist  like  you  must  feel  among  tradesfolks." 

This  worship,  which  greatly  soothed  his  vanity,  delighted 
poor  Pierre  Grassou,  who  was  little  used  to  such  compliments. 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  369 

This  worthy  artist,  this  ignominious  mediocrity,  this  heart 
of  gold,  this  loyal  soul,  this  blundering  draughtsman,  this 
best  of  good  fellows,  displaying  the  Cross  of  the  Royal  Order 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  got  himself  up  with  care  to  go  and 
enjoy  the  last  fine  days  of  the  year  at  Ville  d'Avray.  The 
painter  arrived  unpretentiously  by  the  public  conveyance, 
and  could  not  help  admiring  the  bottle-merchant's  handsome 
residence  placed  in  the  midst  of  a  park  of  about  five  acres, 
at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  best  point  of  view.  To  marry 
Virginie  meant  owning  this  fine  house  some  day ! 

He  was  received  by  the  Vervelles  with  an  enthusiasm,  a 
delight,  a  genuine  heartiness,  a  simple,  commonplace  stu- 
pidity that  overpowered  him.  It  was  a  day  of  triumph.  The 
future  son-in-law  was  taken  to  walk  along  the  nankeen-col- 
ored paths,  which  had  been  raked,  as  was  due,  for  a  great 
man.  The  very  trees  looked  as  if  they  had  been  brushed 
and  combed,  the  lawns  were  mown.  The  pure  country  air 
diluted  kitchen  odors  of  the  most  comforting  character. 
Everything  in  the  house  proclaimed,  "We  have  a  great  artist 
here !"  Little  father  Vervelle  rolled  about  his  paddock  like 
an  apple,  the  daughter  wriggled  after  him  like  an  eel,  and 
the  mother  followed  with  great  dignity.  For  seven  hours 
these  three  beings  never  released  Grassou. 

After  a  dinner,  of  which  the  length  matched  the  splendor, 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Vervelle  came  to  their  grand  sur- 
prise— the  opening  of  the  picture  gallery,  lighted  up  by  lamps 
carefully  arranged  for  effect.  Three  neighbors,  all  retired 
business  men,  an  uncle  from  whom  they  had  expectations, 
invited  in  honor  of  the  great  artist,  an  old  Aunt  Vervelle, 
and  the  other  guests  followed  Grassou  into  the  gallery,  all 
curious  to  hear  his  opinion  of  little  Daddy  Vervelle's  famous 
collection,  for  he  overpowered  them  by  the  fabulous  value  of 
his  pictures.  The  bottle-merchant  seemed  to  wish  to  vie  with 
King  Louis-Philippe  and  the  galleries  of  Versailles. 

The  pictures,  splendidly  framed,  bore  tickets,  on  which 
might  be  read  in  black  letters  on  a  gold  label : — 
VOL.  5—48 


370  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

EUBENS 

A  Dance,  of  Fauns  and  Nymphs 

EEMBKANDT 

Interior  of  a  Dissecting-room 

Doctor  Tromp  giving  a  Lesson  to  his  Pupils 

There  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  pictures,  all  varnished  and 
dusted ;  a  few  had  green  curtains  over  them,  not  to  be  raised 
in  the  presence  of  the  young  person. 

The  artist  stood  with  limp  arms  and  a  gaping  mouth,  with- 
out a  word  on  his  lips,  as  he  recognized  in  this  gallery  half 
his  own  works;  he,  He  was  Kubens,  Paul  Potter,  Mieris, 
Metzu,  Gerard  Dow !  He  alone  was  twenty  great  masters ! 

"What  is  the  matter?  you  look  pale." 

"Daughter,  a  glass  of  water!"  cried  Madame  Vervelle. 

The  painter  took  the  old  man  by  the  button  of  his  coat 
and  led  him  into  a  corner,  under  pretence  of  examining  a 
Murillo. — Spanish  pictures  were  then  the  fashion. 

"You  bought  your  pictures  of  Elias  Magus  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes.    All  original  works." 

"Between  ourselves,  what  did  he  make  you  pay  for  those 
I  will  point  out  to  you?" 

The  couple  went  round  the  gallery.  The  guests  were 
amazed  at  the  solemnity  with  which  the  artist,  following  his 
host,  examined  all  these  masterpieces. 

"Three  thousand  francs!"  exclaimed  Vervelle  in  an  un- 
dertone, as  he  came  to  the  last.  "But  I  tell  you  forty  thou- 
sand francs!" 

"Forty  thousand  francs  for  a  Titian!"  said  the  artist 
aloud;  "why,  it  is  dirt-cheap!" 

"When  I  told  you  I  had  a  hundred  thousand  crowns'  worth 
of  pictures —  "  exclaimed  Vervelle. 

"I  painted  every  one  of  those  pictures,"  said  Pierre  Gras- 


PIERRE  GRASSOU  371 

sou  in  his  ear;  "and  I  did  not  get  more  than  ten  thousand 
francs  for  the  whole  lot." 

"Prove  it,"  replied  the  bottle-merchant,  "and  I  will  double 
my  daughter's  settlements;  for  in  that  case  you  are  Eubens, 
Eembrandt,  Terburg,  Titian!" 

"And  Magus  is  something  like  a  picture-dealer !"  added  the 
painter,  who  could  account  for  the  antique  look  of  the  pict- 
ures, and  the  practical  end  of  the  subjects  ordered  by  the 
dealer. 

Far  from  falling  in  his  admirer's  estimation,  M.  de  Fou- 
geres — for  so  the  family  insisted  on  calling  Pierre  Grassou — 
rose  so  high  that  he  painted  his  family  for  nothing,  and  of 
course  presented  the  portraits  to  his  father-in-law,  his 
mother-in-law,  and  his  wife. 

Pierre  Grassou,  who  never  misses  a  single  exhibition,  is 
now  regarded  in  the  Philistine  world  as  a  very  good  portrait- 
painter.  He  earns  about  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year,  and 
spoils  about  five  hundred  francs'  worth -of  canvas.  His  wife 
had  six  thousand  francs  a  year  on  her  marriage,  and  they 
live  with  her  parents.  The  Vervelles  and  the  Grassous,  who 
get  on  perfectly  well  together,  keep  a  carriage,  and  are  the 
happiest  people  on  earth.  Pierre  Grassou  moves  in  a  com- 
monplace circle,  where  he  is  considered  one  of  the  greatest 
artists  of  the  period.  Not  a  family  portrait  is  ordered  be- 
tween the  Barriere  du  Trone  and  the  Eue  du  Temple  that  is 
not  the  work  of  this  great  painter,  or  that  costs  less  than 
five  hundred  francs.  The  great  reason  why  the  townsfolk 
employ  this  artist  is  this:  "Say  what  you  like,  he  invests 
twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  through  his  notary." 

As  Grassou  behaved  very  well  in  the  riots  of  the  12th  of 
May,  he  has  been  promoted  to  be  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor.  He  is  major  in  the  National  Guard.  The  Ver- 
sailles gallery  was  bound  to  order  a  battle  scene  of  so  worthy 
a  citizen,  who  forthwith  walked  all  about  Paris  to  meet  his 
old  comrades  and  to  say  with  an  air  of  indifference,  "The 
King  has  ordered  me  to  paint  a  battle!" 


372  PIERRE  GRASSOU 

Madame  de  Fougeres  adores  her  husband,  whom  she  has 
presented  with  two  children.  The  painter,  however,  a  good 
father  and  a  good  husband,  cannot  altogether  get  rid  of  a 
haunting  thought :  other  painters  make  fun  of  him ;  his  name 
is  a  term  of  contempt  in  every  studio;  the  newspapers  never 
notice  his  works.  Still,  he  works  on,  and  is  making  his  way 
to  the  Academy;  he  will  be  admitted.  And  then — a  revenge 
that  swells  his  heart  with  pride — he  buys  pictures  by  famous 
artists  when  they  are  in  difficulties,  and  he  is  replacing  the 
daubs  at  the  Ville  d'Avray  by  real  masterpieces — not  of  his 
own  painting. 

There  are  mediocrities  more  vexatious  and  more  spiteful 
than  that  of  Pierre  Grassou,  who  is  in  fact  anonymously 
benevolent  and  perfectly  obliging. 

PARIS,  December  1839L 


EGlONAL  LIBRARY  FAQLJT 


A     000  1 1 1  636     7 


